We are too late to hear the congregational singing, the devotional union of voices, for as we enter the minister ascends into the pulpit in his black velvet skull-cap, and bristling white frill. Unless you are a good German scholar you will fail to understand the discourse so earnestly, so emphatically delivered. The echo of the building, and the high character of the composition, will baffle and mislead you; while, at the same time, the incessant tingling of the little silver bells suspended from the corners of scarlet velvet bags, which are handed along the pews (at the end of a stick), during the whole of the sermon, will distract and irritate you. It is thus they collect alms for the poor. Yet even to one ignorant of the language, there is a fullness and vigour in the style and manner of delivery that would almost persuade you that you had understood, and felt convinced of the truth of what you had heard. As we quit the church we purchase at the door a printed copy of the sermon from a poor widow woman, who is there to sell them at a penny each.
We will loiter home to dinner. The streets are thronged with people, with cheerful, contented faces, and in holiday attire. Who are these grave gentlemen? This little troop in sable trappings; buskins, cloaks, silken hose, hats and feathers, and shoes with large rosettes—all black and sombre, like so many middle aged Hamlets? Can they be masqueraders on the Sabbath? Possibly some of the senators in their official costume? No! Oh, human vanity! A
passer-by informs us that they are only undertakers’ men—paid mourners. They are to swell the funeral procession, and are the mere mimics of woe. The undertakers of Hamburg vie with each other in the dressing of their men, and indeed, one indispensable part of their “stock-in-trade” are some half-dozen dress-suits of black, it matters not of what age or country, the stranger the better, so that the “effect” be good.
We will take a stroll about the beautiful Alster this Sunday afternoon. It is late autumn, and the early budding trees have already shed their leaves. But rich, floating masses of foliage are still there—the deepening hues of autumn, and here and there broad patches of bright summer green. There are two Alsters, the “inner” and “outer,” each of them a broad expanse of water; they are connected by flood-gates, surrounded by verdure, and studded with pleasure-boats; while on the city side several elegant pavilions hang on the water’s edge, where coffee and beverages of every kind can be obtained, and the seldom omitted and never-to-be-forgotten music of the Germans may be heard thrilling in the evening air.
It is already growing dusk; let us enter the Alster Halle. This is the most important of these pavilions. It is not large; there is but the ground-floor. It has much the appearance of a French café, the whole space being filled with small, round, white marble tables, and innumerable chairs. Here all the lighter articles of refreshment are to be obtained; tea, coffee, wines, spirits and pastry in numberless shapes. There is an inner room where the more quietly disposed can read his newspaper in comparative silence; here are German, Danish, French, and English journals, and a little sprinkling of literary periodicals. Another room is set apart for billiards, where silent, absorbed individuals may be seen playing eternally at poule. In the evening a little band of skilled musicians, in the pay of the proprietor, perform choice morsels of beautiful music, and all this can be enjoyed for the price of a cup of coffee—twopence!
THE LAST HEADSMAN.
Ten years ago the ancient city of Hamburg was awakened into terror by the commission of a fearful murder. The cry of “Fire!” arose in the night; the nachtwächter (watchman) gave the alarm;
and the few means at command were resorted to with an energy and goodwill that sufficed soon to extinguish the flames. It was, however, discovered that the fire had not done the work it had been kindled for; it would not hide murder. Among the smouldering embers in the kellar or underground kitchen, where the fire had originated, was discovered the charred body of a poor old woman, whose recent wounds were too certain evidences of a violent death. It was also ascertained that a petty robbery of some few dollars had been committed, and the utmost vigilance was called into exercise to discover the perpetrator.
All surmises were in vain, till suspicion fell upon the watchman who had first given the alarm; and the first evidence of the track of guilt being thus fallen upon, it was not difficult to trace it to its source. Numerous little scraps of evidence came out, one upon another, till the whole diabolical plot was stripped of its mystery, and the guilt of the wächter clearly proved. He was convicted of the crime imputed to him, and condemned to death by the Senate. But on receiving sentence, the condemned man assumed a tone totally unexpected of him, for he boldly asserted that the punishment of death had fallen into disuse; that it was no longer the law of Hamburg; and concluded by defying the Senators to carry the sentence pronounced into execution.
It was indeed true that the ponderous weapon of the headsman had lain for two-and-twenty years rusting in its scabbard; nor without reason. At that period a criminal stood convicted and condemned to death. The law gave little mercy in those days, and there was no hesitation in carrying the sentence into effect. But an unexpected difficulty arose; the old headsman was but lately dead, and his son, a fine stalwart young man, was, from inexperience, considered unequal to the task. A crowd of eager competitors proffered their services in this emergency, but the ancient city of Hamburg, like some other ancient cities, was hampered with antiquated usages. Its profits and other advantages were tied up into little knots of monopoly, in various shapes of privileges and hereditary rights. The young headsman claimed his office on the latter ground; to the surprise of all, his mother, the wife of the old headsman, not merely supported him in his claim, but persisted, with a spirit that might have become a Roman matron but certainly no one else, that if her son were incapable, she herself was responsible for the performance of her husband’s duty, and would