BUBBLES BY AN OLD MAN.

BUBBLES
FROM THE
BRUNNENS OF NASSAU,

BY
AN OLD MAN.

BUBBLE, (bobbel, Dutch,)

Anything which wants solidity and firmness.

Johnson’s Dictionary.

THE THIRD EDITION.

PARIS,

BAUDRY’S EUROPEAN LIBRARY,

RUE DU COQ, NEAR THE LOUVRE.

SOLD ALSO BY AMYOT, RUE DE LA PAIX; TRUCHY, BOULEVARD DES ITALIENS; THEOPHILE BARROIS, JUN., RUE RICHELIEU; LIBRAIRIE DES ETRANGERS, RUE NEUVE-SAINT-AUGUSTIN; AND FRENCH AND ENGLISH LIBRARY, RUE VIVIENNE.

1834.

PRINTED BY J. SMITH, 16, RUE MONTMORENCY.

[PREFACE.]

The writer of this trifling Volume was suddenly sentenced, in the cold evening of his life, to drink the mineral waters of one of the bubbling springs, or brunnens, of Nassau. In his own opinion, his constitution was not worth so troublesome a repair; but, being outvoted, he bowed and departed.

On reaching the point of his destination, he found not only water-bibbing—bathing—and ambulation to be the orders of the day, but it was moreover insisted upon, that the mind was to be relaxed inversely as the body was to be strengthened. During this severe regimen, he was driven to amuse himself in his old age by blowing, as he toddled about, a few literary Bubbles. His hasty sketches of whatever chanced for the moment to please either his eyes, or his mind, were only made—because he had nothing else in the whole world to do; and he now offers them to that vast and highly respectable class of people who read from exactly the self-same motive.

The critic must, of course, declare this production to be vain—empty—light—hollow—superficial ...... but it is the nature of Bubbles to be so.

“The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,
And these are of them.”

Macbeth, Act I., Scene 3.

BUBBLES.

[THE VOYAGE.]

By the time I reached the Custom-house Stairs, the paddles of the Rotterdam steam-boat were actually in motion, and I had scarcely hurried across a plank, when I heard it fall splash into the muddy water which separated me farther and farther from the wharf. Still later than myself, passengers were now seen chasing the vessel in boats, and there was a confusion on deck, which I gladly availed myself of, by securing, close to the helmsman, a corner, where, muffled in the ample folds of an old boat-cloak, I felt I might quietly enjoy an incognito; for, as the sole object of my expedition was to do myself as much good and as little harm as possible, I considered it would be a pity to wear out my constitution by any travelling exclamations in the Thames.

The hatches being now opened, the huge pile of trunks, black portmanteaus, and gaudy carpet-bags which had threatened at first to obstruct my prospect was rapidly stowed away; and, as the vessel, hissing and smoking, glided, or rather scuffled, by Deptford, Greenwich, Woolwich, &c., a very motley group of fellow-passengers were all occupied in making remarks of more or less importance. Some justly prided themselves on being able to read aloud inscriptions on shore, which others had declared, from their immense distance, to be illegible;—some, bending forward, modestly asked for information; some, standing particularly upright, pompously, imparted it; at times, wondering eyes, both male and female, were seen radiating in all directions; then all were concentrated on an approaching sister steam-boat, which, steering an opposite course, soon rapidly passed us; the gilt figure at her head, the splashing of the paddles, and the name written over her stern, occasioning observations which burst into existence nearly as simultaneously as the thunder and lightning of heaven;—handkerchiefs were waved, and bipeds of both sexes seemed to be delighted, save and except one mild, gloomy, inquisitive little man, who went bleating like a lamb from one fellow-passenger to another, without getting even from me any answer to his harmless question, “whether we had or had not passed yet the men hanging in chains?”

As soon as we got below Gravesend, the small volume of life which, with feelings of good-fellowship to all men, I had thus been calmly reviewing, began to assume a graver tone; and, as page after page presented itself to my notice, I observed that notes of interrogation and marks of admiration were types not so often to be met with, as the comma, the colon—and, above all—the full stop.

The wind, as it freshened with the sun, seemed to check all exuberance of fancy; and, as the puny river-wave rose, conversation around me lulled and lulled into a dead calm. A few people, particularly some ladies, suddenly at last broke silence, giving utterance to a mass of heavy matter-of-fact ejaculations, directed rather to fishes than to men. Certain colours in the picture now began rapidly to alter—the red rose gradually looked like the lily—brown skin changed itself into dirty yellow, and I observed two heavy cheeks of warm, comfortable, fat flesh gradually assume the appearance of cold wrinkled tallow. Off Margate, a sort of hole-and-corner system very soon began to prevail, and one human being after another slowly descending heels foremost, vanished from deck into a sub-stratum, or infernal region, where there was moaning, and groaning, and gnashing of teeth; and, as head after head thus solemnly sunk from my view, I gradually threw aside the folds of my ægis, until finding myself alone, I hailed and inhaled with pleasure the cool fresh breeze which had thus caused me to be left, as I wished to be, by myself.

The gale now delightfully increased—(ages ago I had been too often exposed to it to suffer from its effect);—and, as wave after wave became tipt with white, there flitted before my mind a hundred recollections chasing one another, which I never thought to have re-enjoyed; occasionally they were interrupted by the salt spray, and as it dashed into my face, I felt my grizzled eyebrows curl themselves up, as if they wished me once again to view the world in the prismatic colours of “Auld Lang Syne.” Already was my cure half effected; and the soot of London being thus washed from my brow, I felt a reanimation of mind and a vigour of frame which made me long for the moment when, like the sun bursting from behind a cloud, I might cast aside my shadowy mantle: however, I never moved from my nook, until the darkness of night at last encouraging me, without fear of observation, to walk the deck, “I paced along upon the giddy footing of the hatches,” till tired of these vibrations, I stood for a few moments at the gangway.

There was no moon—a star only here and there was to be seen; yet, as the fire-propelled vessel cut her way, the paddles, by shivering in succession each wave to atoms, produced a phosphoric sparkling, resembling immense lanthorns at her side; and while these beacons distinctly proclaimed where the vessel actually was, a pale shining stream of light issued from her keel, which, for a ship’s length or two, told fainter and fainter where she had been.

The ideas which rush into the mind, on contemplating by night, out of sight of land, the sea, are as dark, as mysterious, as unfathomable, and as indescribable as the vast ocean itself. One sees but little,—yet that little, caught here and there, so much resembles some of the attributes of the Great Power which created us, that the mind, trembling under the immensity of the conceptions it engenders, is lost in feelings which human beings cannot impart to each other. In the hurricane which one meets with in southern latitudes, most of us have probably looked in vain for the waves which have been described to be “mountain high;” but, though the outline has been exaggerated, is there not a terror in the filling in of the picture which no human artist can delineate? and in the raging of the tempest—in the darkness which the lightning makes visible—who is there among us that has not fancied he has caught a shadow of the wrath, and a momentary glimmering of the mercy, of the Almighty?

Impressed with these hackneyed feelings, I slowly returned to my nook, and all being obscure, except just the red, rough countenance of the helmsman, feebly illuminated by the light in the binnacle, I laid myself down, and sometimes nodding a little and sometimes dozing, I enjoyed for many hours a sort of half sleep, of which I stood in no little need.

As soon as we had crossed the Briell, the vessel being at once in smooth water, the passengers successively emerged from their graves below, until, in a couple of hours, their ghastly countenances all were on deck.

A bell, as if in hysterics, now rang most violently, as a signal to the town of Rotterdam. The word of command, “STOP HER!” was loudly vociferated by a bluff, short, Dirk Hatteraick-looking pilot, who had come on board off the Briell. “Stop her!” was just heard faintly echoed from below, by the invisible exhausted sallow being who had had, during the voyage, charge of the engine. The paddles, in obedience to the mandate, ceased—then gave two turns—ceased,—turned once again—paused,—gave one last struggle, when, our voyage being over, the vessel’s side slightly bumped against the pier.

With a noise like one of Congreve’s rockets, the now useless steam was immediately exploded by the pale being below, and, in a few seconds, half the passengers were seen on shore, hurrying in different directions about a town full of canals and spirit shops.

“Compared with Greece and Italy—Holland is but a platter-faced, cold-gin-and-water country, after all!” said I to myself, as I entered the great gate of the Hôtel des Pays-Bas; “and a heavy, barge-built, web-footed race are its inhabitants,” I added, as I passed a huge amphibious wench on the stairs, who, with her stern towards me, was sluicing the windows with water: “however, there is fresh air, and that, with solitude, is all I here desire!” This frail sentimental sentence was hardly concluded, when a Dutch waiter (whose figure I will not misrepresent by calling him “garcon”) popped a long carte, or bill of fare, into my hands, which severely reproved me for having many other wants besides those so simply expressed in my soliloquy.

As I did not feel equal to appearing in public, I had dinner apart in my own room; and, as soon as I came to that part of the ceremony called dessert, I gradually raised my eyes from the field of battle, until leaning backwards in my chair to ruminate, I could not help first admiring, for a few moments, the height and immense size of an apartment, in which there seemed to be elbow-room for a giant.

Close before the window was the great river upon whose glassy surface I had often and often been a traveller; and, flowing beneath me, it occurred to me, as I sipped my wine, that in its transit, or course of existence, it had attained at Rotterdam, as nearly as possible, the same period in its life as my own. Its birth, its froward infancy, and its wayward youth, were remote distances to which even fancy could now scarcely re-transport us. In its full vigour, the Rhine had been doomed turbulently to struggle with difficulties and obstructions which had seemed almost capable of arresting it in its course; and if there was now nothing left in its existence worth admiring—if its best scenery had vanished—if its boundaries had become flat, and its banks insipid, still there was an expansion in its broader surface, and a deep-settled stillness in its course, which seemed to offer tranquillity instead of ecstasy, and perfect contentment instead of imperfect joy. I felt that in the whole course of the river there was no part of it I desired to exchange for the water flowing slowly before me; and though it must very shortly, I knew, be lost in the ocean, that great emblem of eternity, yet in every yard of its existence that fate had been foretold to it.

Not feeling disposed again so immediately to endure the confinement of a vessel, I walked out, and succeeded in hiring a carriage, which, in two days, took me to Cologne, and the following morning I accordingly embarked, at six o'clock, in a steam-boat, which was to reach Coblentz in eleven hours.

As everybody, now-a-days, has been up the Rhine, I will only say, that I started in a fog, and, for a couple of hours, was very coolly enveloped in it. My compagnons de voyage were tricolored—Dutch, German and French; and, excepting always myself, there was nothing English—nothing, at least, but a board, which sufficiently explained the hungry, insatiable inquisitiveness of our travellers. The black thing hung near the tiller, and upon it there was painted, in white letters, the following sentence, which I copied literatim:—

“Enfering any conversation with the Steersner and Pilotes is desired to be forborn.”

On account of the fog, we could see nothing, yet, once or twice, we steered towards the tinkling invitation of a bell; stopped for a moment—took in passengers, and proceeded. The manner in which these Rhine steam-vessels receive and deliver passengers, carriages, and horses, is most admirable: at each little village, the birth of a new traveller, or the death or departure of an old one, does not detain the vessel ten seconds: but the little ceremony being over, on it instantly proceeds, worming and winding its way towards its destination.

Formerly, and until lately, a few barges, towed by horses, were occasionally seen toiling against the torrent of the Rhine, while immense rafts of timber, curiously connected together, floated indolently downward to their market: in history, therefore, this uncommercial river was known principally for its violence, its difficulties, and its dangers. Excepting to the painter, its points most distinguished were those where armies had succeeded in crossing, or where soldiers had perished in vainly attempting to do so; but the power of steam, bringing its real character into existence, has lately developed peaceful properties which it was not known to have possessed. The stream which once relentlessly destroyed mankind, now gives to thousands their bread;—that which once separated nations, now brings them together;—national prejudices, which, it was once impiously argued, this river was wisely intended to maintain, are, by its waters, now softened and decomposed: in short, the Rhine affords another proof that there is nothing really barren in creation but man’s conceptions, nothing defective but his own judgment, and that what he looked upon as a barrier in Europe, was created to become one of the great pavés in the world.

As the vessel proceeded towards Coblentz, it continually paused in its fairy course, apparently to barter and traffic in the prisoners it contained—sometimes stopping off one little village, it exchanged an infirm old man for two country girls; and then, as if laughing at its bargain, gaily proceeding, it paused before another picturesque hamlet, to give three Prussian soldiers of the 36th regiment for a husband, a mother, and a child; once it delivered an old woman, and got nothing;—then, luckily, it received two carriages for a horse, and next it stopped a second to take up a tall, thin, itinerant poet, who, as soon as he had collected from every passenger a small contribution, for having recited two or three little pieces, was dropped at the next village, ready to board the steam-vessel coming down from Mainz.

In one of these cartels, or exchanges of prisoners, we received on board Sir —— and Lady ——, a young fashionable English couple, who having had occasion, a fortnight before, to go together to St-George’s Church, had (like dogs suffering from hydrophobia or tin canisters) been running straight forwards ever since. As hard as they could drive, they had posted to Dover—hurried across to Calais—thence to Brussels—snapped a glance at the ripe corn waving on the field of Waterloo,—stared at the relics of that great Saint, old Charlemagne, on the high altar of Aix-la-Chapelle, and at last sought for rest and connubial refuge at Coln; but the celebrated water of that town, having in its manufacture evidently abstracted all perfume from the atmosphere, they could not endure the dirt and smell of the place, and, therefore, had proceeded by land towards Coblentz; but, as they were changing horses at a small village, seeing our steam-boat in view, they ordered a party of peasants to draw their carriage to the banks of the river, and as soon as our vessel, which came smoking alongside, began to hiss, they, their rosy, fresh-coloured French maid, their dark, chocolate-coloured chariot, and their brown, ill-looking Italian courier, came on board.

As soon as this young London couple lightly stepped on deck, I saw, at one glance, that without at all priding themselves on their abilities, they fancied, and indeed justly fancied, that they belonged to that class of society which, in England, so modestly calls itself—good. That it was not healthy society—that its victims were exposed to late hours, crowded rooms, and impure air, was evident enough from the contrast which existed between their complexions, and that of their healthy country attendant; however, they seemed not only to be perfectly satisfied with themselves, and the clique which they had left behind them, but to have a distaste for everything else they saw. Towards some German ladies, who had slightly bowed to them as they passed, they looked with a vacant haughty stare, as if they conceived there must be some mistake, and as if, at all events, it would be necessary to keep such people off. Yet, after all, there was no great harm in these two young people: that, in the countries which they were about to visit, they would be fitted only for each other, was sadly evident; however, on the other hand, it was also evidently their wish not to extend their acquaintance. Their heads were lanthorns, illuminated with no more brains than barely sufficient to light them on their way; and so, like the babes in the wood, they sat together, hand-in-hand, regardless of everything in creation but themselves.

For running their carriage down to the shore, the brown confidential courier, whose maxim was, of course, to pay little and charge much, offered the gang of peasants some kreutzers, which amounted, in English currency, to about sixpence. This they refused, and the captain of the party, while arguing with the flint-skinning courier, was actually carried off by our steam-boat, which, like time and tide, waited for no man. The poor fellow, finding that the Italian was immoveable, came aft to the elegant English couple, who were still leaning towards each other like the Siamese boys. He pleaded his case, stated his services, declared his poverty, and, in a manly voice, prayed for redress. The dandy listened—looked at his boots, which were evidently pinching him,—listened—passed four white fingers through the curls of his jet-black hair—showed the point of a pink tongue gently playing with a front tooth, and when the vulgar story was at an end, without moving a muscle in his countenance, in a sickly tone of voice, he pronounced his verdict as follows ........ “Alley!”

The creditor tried again, but the debtor sat as silent and as inanimate as a corpse. However, all this time the steam-boat dragging the poor peasant out of his way, he protested in a few angry exclamations against the injustice with which he had been treated (a sentiment I was very sorry to hear more than once mildly whispered by many a quiet-looking German), and descending the vessel’s side into a small boat, which had just brought us a new captive, he landed at a village from which he had about eight miles to walk to join his comrades.

It is with no satirical feeling that I have related this little occurrence. To hurt the feelings of “gay beings born to flutter but a day”—to break such a pair of young, flimsy butterflies upon the wheel, affords me neither amusement nor delight; but the every-day occurrence of English travellers committing our well-earned national character for justice and liberality to the base, slave-driving hand of a courier, is a practice which, as well as the bad taste of acting the part of a London dandy on the great theatre of Europe, ought to be checked.

As we proceeded up the Rhine, there issued from one of the old romantic castles we were passing a party of young English lads, whose appearance (as soon as they came on board) did ample justice to their country; and, comparing them while they walked the deck, with the rest of their fellow-prisoners, I could not help more than once fancying that I saw a determination in their step, a latent character in their attitudes, and a vigour in their young frames, which being interpreted, said—

“We dare do all that doth become a man,
He who dares more—is none!”

Besides these young collegians, an English gentleman came on board, who appeared quite delighted to join their party. He was a stout man, of about fifty, tall, well-dressed, evidently wealthy, and as ruddy as our mild wholesome air could make him. Not only had he a high colour, but there was a network of red veins in his cheeks, which seemed as if not even death could drive it away: his face shone from excessive cleanliness, and though his nose certainly was not long, there was a sort of round bull-dog honesty in his face, which it was quite delightful to gaze upon. I overheard this good man inform his countrymen, who had surrounded him in a group, that he had never before been out of England—and that, to tell the truth, he never wished to quit it again! “It’s surely beautiful scenery!” observed one of his auditors, pointing to the outline of a ruin which, with the rock upon which it stood, seemed flying away behind us. “Yes, yes!” replied the florid traveller. “But, sir! it’s the dirtiness of the people I complain of. Their cookery is dirty—they are dirty in their persons—dirty in their habits—that shocking trick of smoking (pointing to a fat German who was enjoying this pleasure close by his side, and who I rather suspect perfectly understood English) is dirty—depend upon it, they are what we should call, sir, a very dirty race!” “Do you speak the language?” said one of the young listeners with a smile which was very awkwardly repressed. “Oh, no!” replied the well-fed gentleman, laughing good-naturedly: “I know nothing of their language. I pay for all I eat, and I find, by paying, I can get anything I want. “Mangez! changez!” is quite foreign language enough, sir, for me;” and having to the first word suited his action, by pointing with his fore-finger to his mouth, and to explain the second, having rubbed his thumb against the self-same finger, as if it were counting out money, he joined the roar of laughter which his two French words had caused, and then very good-naturedly paced the deck by himself.

The jagged spires of Coblentz now came in sight, and every Englishman walked to the head of the vessel to see them, while several of the inhabitants of the city, with less curiosity, occupied themselves in leisurely getting together their luggage. For a moment, as we glided by the Moselle, on our right, we looked up the course of that lovely river, which here delivers up its waters to the Rhine; in a few minutes the bell on board rang, and continued to ring, until we found ourselves firmly moored to the pier of Coblentz. Most of the passengers went into the town. I, however, crossing the bridge of boats, took up my quarters at the Cheval Blanc, a large hotel, standing immediately beneath that towering rock so magnificently crowned by the celebrated fortress of Ehrenbreitstein.

[THE JOURNEY.]

The next day, starting from Coblentz while the morning air was still pure and fresh, I bade adieu to the picturesque river behind me, and travelling on a capital macadamized road which cuts across the duchy of Nassau from Coblentz to Mainz, I immediately began to ascend the mountains, which on all sides were beautifully covered with wood. In about two hours, descending into a narrow valley, I passed through Bad-Ems, a small village, which, composed of hovels for its inhabitants, and, comparatively speaking, palaces for its guests, is pleasantly enough situated on the bank of a stream of water (the Lahn), imprisoned on every side by mountains which I should think very few of its visiters would be disposed to scale; and, from the little I saw of this place, I must own I felt but little disposition to remain in it. Its outline, though much admired, gives a cramped, contracted picture of the resources and amusements of the place, and as I drove through it (my postilion, with huge orange-coloured worsted tassels at his back, proudly playing a discordant voluntary on his horn), I particularly remarked some stiff, formal little walks, up and down which many well-dressed strangers were slowly promenading; but the truth is, that Ems is a regular, fashionable watering-place.

Many people, I fully admit, go there to drink the waters only because they are salutary, but a very great many more visit it from far different motives; and it is sad, as well as odd enough, that young ladies who are in a consumption, and old ladies who have a number of gaudy bonnets to display, find it equally desirable to come to Bad-Ems. This mixture of sickness and finery—this confusion between the hectic flush and red and white ribands—in short, this dance of death, is not the particular sort of folly I am fond of; and, though I wish to deprive no human being of his hobby-horse, yet I must repeat I was glad enough to leave dukes and duchesses, princes and ambassadors (whose carriages I saw standing in one single narrow street), to be cooped up together in the hot, expensive little valley of Ems,—an existence, to my humble taste, not altogether unlike that which the foul witch, Sycorax, inflicted upon Ariel, when, “in her most unmitigable rage,” she left him hitched in a cloven pine.

On leaving Ems, the road passing through the old mouldering town of Nassau, and under the beautiful ruins of the ducal Stamm-Schlosz in its neighbourhood, by a very steep acclivity, continues to ascend until it mounts at last into a sort of upper country, from various points of which are to be seen extensive views of the exalted duchy of Nassau, the features of which are on a very large scale.

No one, I think, can breathe this dry, fresh air for a single moment, or gaze for an instant on the peculiar colour of the sky, without both smelling and seeing that he is in a country very considerably above the level of the sea; yet this upper story, when it be once attained is by no means what can be termed a mountainous country. On the contrary, the province is composed either of flat table-land abruptly intersected by valleys, or rather of an undulation of hills and dales on an immense scale. In the great tract thus displayed to view, scarcely a habitation is to be seen, and for a considerable time I could not help wondering what had become of the people who had sown the crops (as far I could see they were in solitude waving around me), and who of course were somewhere or other lurking in ambush for the harvest: however, their humble abodes are almost all concealed in steep ravines, or water-courses, which in every direction intersect the whole of the region I have described. A bird’s-eye view would of course detect these little villages, but from any one point, as the eye roams over the surface, they are not to be seen. The duchy, which is completely unenclosed, for there is not even a fence to the orchards, appears like a royal park on a gigantic scale, about one-half being in corn-fields or uncultivated land, and the remainder in patches of woods and forests, which in shape and position resemble artificial plantations. The province, as far as one can see, thus seems to declare that it has but one lord and master, and the various views it presents are really very grand and imposing. A considerable portion of the wood grows among crags and rocks; and among the open land there is a great deal of what is evidently a mining country, with much indicating the existence of both iron and silver. The crops of wheat, oats, and barley, are rather light, yet they are very much better than one would expect from the ground from which they grow; but this is the effect of the extraordinary heavy dews which, during the whole summer, may be said, once in twenty-four hours, to irrigate the land.

The small steep ravines I have mentioned are the most romantic little spots that can well be conceived. The rugged sides of the hills which contain them are generally clothed with oak, or beech trees, feathering to the very bottom, where a strip of green, rich, grassy land full of springs, scarcely broader than, and very much resembling, the moat of an old castle, is all that divides the one wooded eminence from the other; and it is into these secluded gardens, these smiling happy valleys, that the inhabitants of Nassau have humbly crept for shelter. These valleys are often scarcely broad enough to contain the single street which forms the village, and from such little abodes, looking upwards, one would fancy that one were living in a mountainous country; but, climb the hill—break the little petty barrier that imprisons you, and from the height, gently undulating before you, is the vast, magnificent country I have described. In short, in the two prospects, one reads the old story—one sees the common picture of human life. Beneath lies the little contracted nook in which we were born, studded with trifling objects, each of which we once fancied to be highly important; every little rock has its name, and every inch of ground belongs to one man, and therefore does not belong to another; but, lying prostrate before us, is a great picture of the world, and until he has seen it, no one born and bred below could fancy how vast are its dimensions, or how truly insignificant are the billows of that puddle in a storm from which he has somehow or other managed to escape. But, without metaphor, nothing can be more striking than the contrast which exists between the little valleys of this duchy, and the great country which soars above them!

With respect to the climate of Nassau, without presuming to dictate upon that subject, I will, while my postilion is jolting me along, request the reader to decipher for himself hieroglyphics which I think sufficiently explain it. In short, I beg leave to offer him the milk of information—warm as I suck it from the cow.

At this moment, everything, see! is smiling; the trees are in full leaf; the crops in full bearing. In no part of Devonshire or Herefordshire have I ever seen such rich crops of apples, the trees being here surrounded with a scaffolding of poles, which after all seem scarcely sufficient to save the boughs from breaking under their load; but I ask—How comes the vine to be absent from this gay scene? the low country and even the lower part of Nassau, we all know, teems with vineyards, and for some way have they crawled up the sides of the mountain; the reason, therefore, for their not appearing in the high ground is surely one very legible character of the climate.

Again, at all the bendings of the valleys, why do the trees appear so stunted in their growth, and why are so many of them stag-headed? They must surely have some sad reason for wearing this appearance, and any one may guess what it is that in the winter rushes by them with such violence, that, instinctively, they seem more anxious to grow beneath the soil than above it. Again, under that hot, oppressive sun which is now hurrying every crop to maturity, why do not the inhabitants look like Neapolitans and other indolent Lazzaroni-living people?—how comes it that their features are so hard?—Can the sun have beaten them into that shape?

Why are the houses they live in huddled together in the valleys, instead of enjoying the magnificent prospect before me? Why do the wealthiest habitations look to the south, and why are the roofs of the houses built or pitched so perpendicularly that it seems as if nothing could rest upon their surface? Why are the windows so small and the walls so thick? I might torment my reader with many other questions, such as why, in this large country, is there scarcely a bird to be seen? but I dare say he has already determined for himself, whether the lofty province of Nassau, during the winter, be hot or cold; in short, what must be its climate at the moment when the Rhine and the expanse of low country, lying about 1200 feet beneath it, is frozen and covered with snow?

Yet whatever may be the climate of the upper country of Nassau, the duchy, taken altogether, may fairly be said to contribute more than an average share towards the luxuries and comforts of mankind. Besides fine timber-trees of oak, beech, birch, and fir, there are crops of corn of every sort, as well as potatoes which would not be despised in England; several of the wines (for instance, those on the estates of Hochheim, Eberbach, Rudesheim, and Johannisburg) are the finest on the Rhine, while there are fruits, such as apples, pears, cherries, apricots, strawberries, raspberries (the two latter growing wild), &c., &c. in the greatest abundance.

Not only are there mines of the precious metals and of iron, but there is also coal, which we all know will, when the gigantic powers of steam are developed, become the nucleus of every nation’s wealth. In addition to all this, the duchy is celebrated over the whole of Germany for its mineral waters; and certainly if they be at all equal to the reputation they have acquired, Nassau may be said to contribute to mankind what is infinitely better than all wealth, namely—health.

From its hills burst mineral streams of various descriptions, and besides the Selters or Seltzer water, which is drunk as a luxury in every quarter of the globe, there are bright, sparkling remedies prescribed for almost every disorder under the sun;—for instance, should the reader be consumptive, or, what is much more probable, be dyspeptic, let him hurry to Ems; if he wishes to instil iron into his jaded system, and brace up his muscles, let him go to Langen-Schwalbach; if his brain should require calming, his nerves soothing, and his skin softening, let him glide onwards to Schlangenbad—the serpent’s bath; but if he should be rheumatic in his limbs, or if mercury should be running riot in his system, let him hasten, “body and bones,” to Wiesbaden, where, they say, by being parboiled in the Kochbrunnen (boiling spring), all his troubles will evaporate.

To these different waters of Nassau flock annually thousands and thousands of people from all parts of Germany; and so celebrated are they for the cures which they have effected, that not only do people also come from Russia, Poland, Denmark, &c., but a vast quantity of the waters, in stone bottles, is annually sent to these remote countries. Yet it is odd enough, that the number of English, who have visited the mineral springs of Nassau, bears no proportion to that of any other nation of Europe, although Spa, and some other continental watering-places, have been much deserted by foreigners, on account of the quantity of the British who have thronged there; but, somehow or other, our country people are like locusts, for they not only fly in myriads to distant countries, but, as they travel, they congregate in clouds, and, therefore, either are they found absolutely eating up a foreign country, or not one of them is to be seen there. How many thousands and hundreds of thousands of English, with their mouths, eyes, and purses wide open, have followed each other, in mournful succession, up and down the Rhine; and yet, though Nassau has stood absolutely in their path, I believe I may assert that not twenty families have taken up their abode at Langen-Schwalbach or Schlangenbad in the course of the last twenty years; and yet there is no country on earth that could turn out annually more consumptive, rheumatic, and dyspeptic patients than old England! In process of time, the little duchy will, no doubt, be as well known as Cheltenham, Malvern, &c.; however, until fashion, that painted direction-post, points her finger towards it, it will continue (so far as we are concerned) to exist, as it really does, in nubibus.

There are 56,712 human habitations in the duchy of Nassau, and 355,815 human beings to live in them. Of these, 188,244 are Protestants, 161,535 are Catholics; there are 191 Mennonitens or dissenters; and scattered among these bleak hills, just as their race is mysteriously scattered over the face of the globe, there are 5845 Jews. The Duke of Nassau is the cacique, king, emperor, or commander-in-chief of the province; and people here are everlastingly talking of the Duke, as in England they talk of the sun, the moon, or any other luminary of which there exists only one in our system. He is certainly the sovereign lord of this lofty country; and travelling along, I have just observed a certain little bough sticking out of every tenth sheaf of corn, the meaning of which is, no doubt, perfectly well understood both by him and the peasant: in short, in all the principal villages, there are barns built on purpose for receiving this tribute, with a man, paid by the Duke, for collecting it.

In approaching Langen-Schwalbach, being of course anxious, as early as possible, to get a glimpse of a town which I had already determined to inhabit for a few days, I did all in my power to explain this feeling to the dull, gaudy fellow who drove me; but whenever I inquired for Langen-Schwalbach, so often did the mute creature point with a long German whip to the open country, as if it existed directly before him; but, no, not a human habitation could I discover! However, as I proceeded onwards, the whip, in reply to my repeated interrogatories to its dumb owner, began to show a short of magnetical dip, until, at last, it pointed almost perpendicularly downwards into a ravine, which was now immediately beneath me; yet though I could see, as I thought, almost to the bottom of it, still not a vestige of a town was to be seen. However, the whip was quite right, for, in a very few seconds, peeping up from the very bottom of the valley, I perceived, like poplar trees, a couple of church steeples; then suddenly came in sight a long narrow village of slated roofs, and, in a very few seconds more, I found my carriage rattling and trumpetting along a street, until it stopped at the Goldene Kette, or, as we should call it, the Golden Chain. The master of this hotel appeared to be a most civil, obliging person; and though his house was nearly full, yet he suddenly felt so much respect either for me or for the contents of my wallet, which, in descending from the carriage, I had placed, for a moment, in his hands, that he used many arguments to persuade us both to become noble appendages to his fine Golden Chain: yet there were certain noises, uncertain smells, and a degree of bustle in his house which did not at all suit me; and, therefore, at once mercifully annihilating his hopes by a grave bow which could not be misinterpreted, I slowly walked into the street to select for myself a private lodging, and, for a considerable time, experienced very great difficulty. With hands clasped behind me, in vain did I slowly stroll about, looking out for any thing at all like a paper or a board in a window; and I was beginning to fear that there were no lodging-houses in the town, when I at last found out that there were very few which were not. I therefore selected a clean, quiet-looking dwelling; and, finding the inside equal to the out, I at once engaged apartments.

The next morning (having been refreshed by a good night’s rest) I put a small note-book into my pocket, and having learnt that in the whole valley there was no English blood, except the little that was within my own black silk waistcoat, I felt that I might go where I liked, do what I liked, and sketch the outline of whatever either pleased my eye, or amused my fancy. My first duty, however, evidently was to understand the geography of the town, or rather village, of Langen-Schwalbach, which I found to be in the shape of the letter Y, or (throwing, as I wish to do, literature aside) of a long-handled two-pronged fork. The village is 1500 paces in length, that is to say, the prongs are each about 500 yards, and the lower street, or handle of the fork, is about 1000 yards.

On the first glimpse of the buildings from the heights, my eyes had been particularly attracted by high, irregular, slated roofs, many of which were fantastically ornamented with little spires, about two feet high, but it now appeared that the buildings themselves were constructed even more irregularly than their roofs. The village is composed of houses of all sizes, shapes, and colours: some, having been lately plastered, and painted yellow, white, or pale green, have a modern appearance, while others wear a dress about as old as the hills which surround them. Of these latter, some are standing with their sides towards the streets, others look at you with their gables; some overhang the passenger as if they intended to crush him; some shrink backwards, as if, like misanthropes, they loathed him, or like maidens, they feared him; some lean sideways, as if they were suffering from a painful disorder in their hips; many, apparently from curiosity, have advanced, while a few, in disgust, have retired a step or two.

All the best dwellings in the towns are “hofs,” or lodging-houses, having jalousies, or Venetian blinds, to the windows; and I must own I did not expect to find in so remote a situation houses of such large dimensions. For instance, the Allee Saal has nineteen windows in front; the great “Indien Hof” is three stories high, with sixteen windows in each; the Pariser Hof has twelve, and several others have eight and ten.

Of late years a number of the largest houses have been plastered on the outside, but the appearance of the rest is highly picturesque. They are built of wood and unburnt bricks, but the immense quantity of timber which has been consumed would clearly indicate the vicinity of a large forest, even if one could not see its dark foliage towering on every side above the town. Wood having been of so little value, it has been crammed into the houses, as if the builder’s object had been to hide away as much of it as possible. The whole fabric is a network of timber of all lengths, shapes, and sizes; and these limbs, sometimes rudely sculptured, often bent into every possible contortion, form a confused picture of rustic architecture, which amid such wild mountain scenery one cannot refuse to admire. The interstices between all this woodwork are filled up with brown, unburnt bricks, so soft and porous, that in our moist climate they would in one winter be decomposed, while a very few seasons would also rot the timbers which they connect: however, such is evidently the dryness of mountain air, that buildings can exist here in this rude state, and, indeed, have existed, for several hundred years, with the woodwork unpainted.

In rambling about the three streets, one is surprised, at first, at observing that apparently there is scarcely a shop in the town! Before three or four windows carcasses of sheep, or of young calves but a few days old, are seen hanging by their heels; and loaves of bread are placed for sale before a very few doors: but, generally speaking, the dwellings are either “hofs” for lodgers, or they appear to be a set of nondescript private-houses; nevertheless, by patiently probing, the little shop is at last discovered. In one of these secluded dens one can buy coffee, sugar, butter, nails, cottons, chocolate, ribands, brandy, &c. Still, however, there is no external display of any such articles, for the crowd of rich people who, like the swallows, visit during the summer weeks the sparkling water of Langen-Schwalbach, live at “hofs,” whose proprietors well enough know where to search for what they want. During so short a residence there, fashionable visiters require no new clothes, nails, brimstone, or coarse linen. It is, therefore, useless for the little shopkeeper to attempt to gain their custom; and as, during the rest of the year, the village exists in simplicity, quietness, and obscurity, the inhabitants, knowing each other, require neither signs nor inscriptions. Peasants come to Langen-Schwalbach from other villages, inquire for the sort of shop which will suit them; or if they want (as they generally do) tobacco, oil, or some rancid commodity, their noses are quite intelligent enough to lead them to the doors they ought to enter; indeed, I myself very soon found that it was quite possible thus to hunt for my own game.

I have already stated that Langen-Schwalbach is like a kitchen fork, the handle of which is the lower or old part of the town: the prongs representing two streets built in ravines, down each of which a small stream of water descends. The Stahl brunnen (steel spring) is at the head of the town, at the upper extremity of the right prong. Close to the point of the other prong is the Wein brunnen (wine spring), and about 600 yards up the same valley is situated the fashionable brunnen of Pauline. Between these three points, brunnens, or wells, the visiters at Langen-Schwalbach, with proper intervals for rest and food, are everlastingly vibrating. Backwards and forwards, “down the middle and up again,” the strangers are seen walking, or rather crawling, with a constancy that is really quite astonishing. Among the number there may be here and there a Cœlebs in search of a wife, and a very few sets of much smaller feet may, impari passu, be occasionally seen pursuing nothing but their mammas; however, generally speaking, the whole troop is chasing one and the same game; they are all searching for the same treasure—in short, they are seeking for health: but it is now necessary that the reader should be informed by what means they hope to attain it.

In the time of the Romans, Schwalbach, which means literally the swallow’s stream, was a forest containing an immense sulphureous fountain famed for its medicinal effects. In proportion as it rose into notice, hovels, huts, and houses were erected; until a small street or village was thus gradually established on the north and south of the well. There was little to offer to the stranger but its waters; yet, health being a commodity which people have always been willing enough to purchase, the medicine was abundantly drunk, and in the same proportion the little hamlet continued to grow, until it justly attained and claimed for itself the appellation of Langen (long) Schwalbach.

About sixty years ago the Stahl and Wein brunnens were discovered. These springs were found to be quite different from the old one, inasmuch as, instead of being only sulphureous, they were but strongly impregnated with iron and carbonic acid gas. Instead, therefore, of merely purifying the blood, they boldly undertook to strengthen the human frame; and, in proportion as they attracted notice, so the old original brunnen became neglected. About three years ago a new spring was discovered in the valley above the Wein brunnen; this did not contain quite so much iron as the Stahl or Wein brunnen; but possessing other ingredients (among them that of novelty) which were declared to be more salutary, it was patronised by Dr. Fenner, as being preferable to the brimstone as well as other brunnens in the country. It was accordingly called Pauline, after the present Duchess of Nassau, and is now the fashionable brunnen or well of Langen-Schwalbach.

The village doctors, however, disagree on the subject; and Dr. Stritter, a very mild, sensible man, recommends his patients to the strong Stahl brunnen, almost as positively as Dr. Fenner sentences his victims to the Pauline. Which is right, and which is wrong, is one of the mysteries of this world; but as the cunning Jews all go to the Stahl brunnen, I strongly suspect that they have some good reason for this departure from the fashion.

As I observed people of all shapes, ages, and constitutions, swallowing the waters of Langen-Schwalbach, I felt that, being absolutely on the brink of the brunnen, I might, at least as an experiment, join this awkward squad—that it would be quite time enough to desert if I should find reason to do so—in short, that by trying the waters I should have a surer proof whether they agreed with me or not, than by listening to the conflicting opinions of all the doctors in the universe. However, not knowing exactly in what quantities to take them,—having learnt that Dr. Fenner himself had the greatest number of patients, and that moreover being a one-eyed man he was much the easiest to be found, I walked towards the shady walk near the Allee Saal, resolving eventually to consult him; however, in turning a sharp corner, happening almost to run against a gentleman in black, “cui lumen ademptum,” I gravely accosted him, and finding, as I did in one moment, that I was right, in the middle of the street I began to explain that he saw before him a wheel which wanted a new tire—a shoe which required a new sole—a worn-out vessel seeking the hand of the tinker; in short, that feeling very old, I merely wanted to become young again.

Dr. Fenner is what would be called in England “a regular character,” and being a shrewd, clever fellow, he evidently finds it answer, and endeavours to maintain a singularity of manner, which with his one eye (the other being extinguished in a college duel) serves to bring him into general notice. As soon as my gloomy tale was concluded, the Doctor, who had been walking at my side, stopped dead short, and when I turned round to look for him, there I saw him, with his right arm extended, its fore-finger and thumb clenched, as if holding snuff, and its other three digits horizontally extended like the hand of a direction-post. With his heels close together, he stood as lean and as erect as a ramrod, the black patch which like a hatchment hung over the window of his departed eye being supported by a riband wound diagonally round his head. “Monsieur!” said he (for he speaks a little French), “Monsieur!” he repeated, “à six heures du matin vous prendrez à la Pauline trois verres! trois verres à la Pauline!” he repeated. “A dix heures vous prendrez un bain—en sortant du bain vous prendrez .. (he paused, and after several seconds of deep thought, he added) .. encore deux verres, et à cinq heures du soir, Monsieur, vous prendrez .. (another long pause) .. encore trois verres! Monsieur! ces eaux vous feront beaucoup de bien!!”

The arm of this sybil now fell to his side, like the limb of a telegraph which had just concluded its intelligence. The Doctor made me a low bow, spun round upon his heel, “and so he vanished.”

I had not exactly bargained for bathing in, as well as drinking, the waters; however, feeling in great good-humour with the little world I was inhabiting, I was willing to go with (i. e. into) its stream; and as I found that almost every visiter was daily soaked for an hour or two, I could not but admit that what was prescribed for such geese, might also be good sauce for the gander; and that at all events a bath would at least have the advantage of drowning for me one hour per day, in case I should find four-and-twenty of such visiters more than I wanted.

In a very few days I got quite accustomed to what a sailor would call the “fresh-water life” which had been prescribed for me; and as no clock in the universe could be more regular than my behaviour, an account of one day’s performances, multiplied by the number I remained, will give the reader, very nearly, the history or picture of an existence at Langen-Schwalbach.

[THE REVEILLE.]

At a quarter past five I arose, and as soon after as possible left the “hof.” Every house was open, the streets already swept, the inhabitants all up, the living world appeared broad awake, and there was nothing to denote the earliness of the hour, but the delicious freshness of the cool mountain air; which as yet, unenfeebled by the sun, just beaming above the hill, was in that pure state, in which it had all night long been slumbering in the valley. The face of nature seemed beaming with health, and though there were no larks at Schwalbach gently “to carol at the morn,” yet immense red German slugs were everywhere in my path, looking wetter, colder, fatter, and happier than they or I have words to express. They had evidently been gorging themselves during the night, and were now crawling into shelter to sleep away the day.

As soon as, getting from beneath the shaded walk of the Allee Saal, I reached the green valley leading to the Pauline brunnen, it was quite delightful to look at the grass, as it sparkled in the sun, every green blade being laden with dew in such heavy particles, that there seemed to be quite as much water as grass; indeed the crop was actually bending under the weight of nourishment which, during the deep silence of night, Nature had liberally imparted to it; and it was evident that the sun would have to rise high in the heavens before it could attain strength enough to rob the turf of this fertilizing and delicious treasure.

At this early hour, I found but few people on the walks, and on reaching the brunnen, the first agreeable thing I received there was a smile from a very honest, homely, healthy old woman, who having seen me approaching, had selected from her table my glass, the handle of which she had marked by a piece of tape.

“Guten morgen!” she muttered; and then, without at all deranging the hospitality of her smile, stooping down, she dashed the vessel into the brunnen beneath her feet, and in a sort of civil hurry (lest any of its spirit should escape), she presented me with a glass of her eau médicinale. Clear as crystal, sparkling with carbonic acid gas, and effervescing quite as much as champagne, it was nevertheless miserably cold; and the first morning, what with the gas, and what with the low temperature of this cold iron water, it was about as much as I could do to swallow it; and, for a few seconds, feeling as if it had sluiced my stomach completely by surprise, I stood hardly knowing what was about to happen, when, instead of my teeth chattering, as I expected, I felt the water suddenly grow warm within my waistcoat, and a slight intoxication, or rather exhilaration, succeeded.

As I have always had an unconquerable aversion to walking backwards and forwards on a formal parade, as soon as I had drank my first glass I at once commenced ascending the hill which rises immediately from the brunnen. Paths in zigzags are cut in various directions in the wood, but so steep, that very few of the water-drinkers like to encounter them. I found the trees to be oak and beech, the ground beneath being covered with grass and heather, among which were, growing wild, quantities of ripe strawberries and raspberries. The large red snails were in great abundance, and immense black-beetles were also in the paths, heaving at, and pushing upwards, loads of dung, &c., very much bigger than themselves; the grass and heather were soaked with dew, and even the strawberries looked much too wet to be eaten. However, I may observe, that while drinking mineral waters, all fruit, wet or dry, is forbidden. Smothered up in the wood, there was, of course, nothing to be seen; but as soon as I gained the summit of the hill, a very pretty hexagonal rustic hut, built of trees with the bark on, and thatched with heather, presented itself. The sides were open, excepting two, which were built up with sticks and moss. A rough circular table was in the middle, upon which two or three young people had cut their names; and round the inner circumference of the hut there was a bench, on which I was glad enough to rest, while I enjoyed the extensive prospect.

The features of this picture, so different from any thing to be seen in England, were exceedingly large, and the round rolling clouds seemed bigger even than the distant mountains upon which they rested. Not a fence was to be seen, but dark patches of wood, of various shapes and sizes, were apparently dropped down upon the cultivated surface of the country, which, as far as the eye could reach, looked like the fairy park of some huge giant. In the foreground, however, small fields, and little narrow strips of land, denoted the existence of a great number of poor proprietors; and even if Langen-Schwalbach had not been seen crouching at the bottom of its deep valley, it would have been quite evident that, in the immediate neighbourhood, there must be, somewhere or other, a town; for, in many places, the divisions of land were so small, that one could plainly distinguish provender growing for the poor man’s cow,—the little patch of rye which was to become bread for his children—and the half-acre of potatoes which was to help them through the winter. Close to the town, these divisions and subdivisions were exceedingly small; but when every little family had been provided for, the fields grew larger; and at a short distance from where I sat, there were crops, ripe and waving, which were evidently intended for a larger and more distant market.

As soon as I had sufficiently enjoyed the freshness and the freedom of this interesting landscape, it was curious to look down from the hut upon the walk which leads from the Allee Saal to the brunnen or well of Pauline; for, by this time, all ranks of people had arisen from their beds, and the sun being now warm, the beau monde of Langen-Schwalbach was seen slowly loitering up and down the promenade.

At the rate of about a mile and a half an hour, I observed several hundred quiet people crawling through and fretting away that portion of their existence which lay between one glass of cold iron water and another. If an individual were to be sentenced to such a life, which, in fact, has all the fatigue without the pleasing sociability of the treadmill, he would call it melancholy beyond endurance; yet there is no pill which fashion cannot gild, or which habit cannot sweeten. I remarked that the men were dressed, generally, in loose, ill-made, snuff-coloured great coats, with awkward travelling caps, of various shapes, instead of hats. The picture, therefore, taking it altogether, was a homely one; but, although there were no particularly elegant or fashionable-looking people, although their gait was by no means attractive, yet even, from the lofty distant hut, I felt it was impossible to help admiring the good sense and good feeling with which all the elements of this German community appeared to be harmonizing one with the other. There was no jostling, or crowding; no apparent competition; no turning round to stare at strangers. There was no “martial look nor lordly stride,” but real genuine good breeding seemed natural to all: it is true there was nothing which bore a very high aristocratic polish; yet it was equally evident that the substance of their society was intrinsically good enough not to require it.

The behaviour of such a motley assemblage of people, who belonged, of course, to all ranks and conditions of life, in my humble opinion, did them and their country very great credit. It was quite evident that every man on the promenade, whatever might have been his birth, was desirous to behave like a gentleman; and that there was no one, however exalted was his station, who wished to do any more.

That young lady, rather more quietly dressed than the rest of her sex, is the Princess Leuenstein; her countenance (could it but be seen from the hut) is as unassuming as her dress, and her manner as quiet as her bonnet. Her husband, who is one of the group of gentlemen behind her, is mild, gentlemanlike, and (if in these days such a title may, without offence, be given to a young man), I would add—he is modest.

There are one or two other princes on the promenade, with a very fair sprinkling of dukes, counts, barons, &c.

“There they go, altogether in a row!”

but though they congregate,—though like birds of a feather they flock together, is there, I ask, anything arrogant in their behaviour? and that respect which they meet with from every one, does it not seem to be honestly their due? That uncommonly awkward, short, little couple, who walk holding each other by the hand, and who, apropos to nothing, occasionally break playfully into a trot, are a Jew and Jewess lately married; and, as it is whispered that they have some mysterious reason for drinking the waters, the uxorious anxiety with which the little man presents the glass of cold comfort to his herring-made partner, does not pass completely unobserved. That slow gentleman, with such an immense body, who seems to be acquainted with the most select people on the walk, is an ambassador, who goes nowhere—no, not even to mineral waters, without his French cook, a circumstance quite enough to make everybody speak well of him—a very honest, good-natured man he seems to be; but as he walks, can anything be more evident than that his own cook is killing him, and what possible benefit can a few glasses of cold water do to a corporation which Falstaff’s belt would be too short to encircle?

Often and often have I pitied Diogenes for having lived in a tub; but this poor ambassador is infinitely worse off, for the tub, it is too evident, lives in him, and carry it about with him he must wherever he goes; but, without smiling at any more of my water companions, it is time I should descend to drink my second and third glass. One would think that this deluge of cold water would leave little room for tea and sugar; but miraculous as it may sound, by the time I got to my “hof,” there was as much stowage in the vessel as when she sailed; besides this, the steel created an appetite which it was very difficult to govern.

As soon as breakfast was over, I generally enjoyed the luxury of idling about the town; and, in passing the shop of a blacksmith, who lived opposite to the Goldene Kette, the manner in which he tackled and shod a vicious horse always amused me. On the outside wall of the house, two rings were firmly fixed; to one of which the head of the patient was lashed close to the ground; the hind foot, to be shod, stretched out to the utmost extent of the leg, was then secured to the other ring about five feet high, by a cord which passed through a cloven hitch, fixed to the root of the poor creature’s tail.

The hind foot was consequently very much higher than the head; indeed, it was so exalted, and pulled so heavily at the tail, that the animal seemed to be quite anxious to keep his other feet on terra firma. With one hoof in the heavens, it did not suit him to kick; with his nose pointing to the infernal regions, he could not conveniently rear; and as the devil himself was apparently pulling at his tail, the horse at last gave up the point, and quietly submitted to be shod.

Nearly opposite to this blacksmith, sitting under the projecting eaves of the Goldene Kette, there were to be seen, every day, a row of women with immense baskets of fruit, which they had brought over the hills, on their heads. The cherries were of the largest and finest description, while the quantity of their stones lying on the paved street, was quite sufficient to show at what a cheap rate they were sold. Plums, apricots, greengages, apples, and pears, were also in the greatest profusion; however, in passing these baskets, strangers were strictly ordered to avert their eyes. In short, whenever raw fruit and mineral water unexpectedly meet each other in the human stomach, a sort of bubble-and-squeak contest invariably takes place—the one always endeavouring to turn the other out of the house.

The crowd of idle boys, who like wasps were always hovering round these fruit-selling women, I often observed very amusingly dispersed by the arrival of some German grandee in his huge travelling carriage. For at least a couple of minutes before the thing appeared, the postilion, as he descended the mountain, was heard, attempting to notify to the town the vast importance of his cargo, by playing on his trumpet a tune which, in tone and flourish, exactly resembled that which, in London, announces the approach of Punch. There is something always particularly harsh and discordant in the notes of a trumpet badly blown; but when placed to the lips of a great lumbering German postilion, who, half smothered in his big boots and tawdry finery, has, besides this crooked instrument, to hold the reins of two wheel horses, as well as of two leaders, his attempt, in such deep affliction, to be musical, is comic in the extreme; and, when the fellow at last arrived at the Goldene Kette, playing a tune which I expected every moment would make the head of Judy pop out of the carriage, one could not help feeling that, if the money which that trumpet cost had been spent in a pair of better spurs, it would have been of much more advantage and comfort to the traveller; but German posting always reminds me of the remark which the Black Prince was one day heard to utter, as he was struggling with all his might to shave a pig.

However, though I most willingly join my fellow-countrymen in ridiculing the tawdry heavy equipment of the German postilion, one’s nose always feeling disposed to turn itself upwards at the sight of a horseman awkwardly encumbered with great, unmeaning, yellow worsted tassels, and other broad ornaments, which seem better adapted to our fourpost bedsteads than to a rider, yet I reluctantly acknowledge that I do verily believe their horses are much more scientifically harnessed, for slow heavy draught, than ours are in England.

Many years have now elapsed since I first observed that, somehow or other, the horses on the Continent manage to pull a heavy carriage up a steep hill, or along a dead level, with greater ease to themselves than our English horses. Let any unprejudiced person attentively observe with what little apparent fatigue three small ill-conditioned animals will draw not only his own carriage, but very often that huge overgrown vehicle, the French diligence, or the German eil-wagen, and I think he must admit that, somewhere or other, there exists a mystery.

But the whole equipment is so unsightly—the rope harness is so rude—the horses without blinkers look so wild—there is so much bluster and noise in the postilion, that, far from paying any compliment to the turn-out, one is very much disposed at once to condemn the whole thing, and not caring a straw whether such horses be fatigued or not, to make no other remark than that, in England, they would have travelled at nearly twice the rate, with one-tenth of the noise.

But neither the rate nor the noise is the question which I wish to consider; for our superiority in the former, and our inferiority in the latter, cannot be doubted. The thing I want, if possible, to account for, is, how such small weak horses do manage to draw one’s carriage up hill, with so much unaccountable ease to themselves.

Now, in English, French, and German harness, there exist, as it were, three degrees of comparison in the manner in which the head of the horse is treated; for, in England, it is elevated, or borne up, by what we call the bearing-rein; in France, it is left as nature placed it (there being to common French harness no bearing-rein); while, in Germany, the head is tied down to the lower extremity of the collar, or else the collar is so made that the animal is by it deprived of the power of raising his head.

Now, it is undeniable that the English extreme and the German extreme cannot both be right; and passing over for a moment the French method, which is, in fact, the state of nature, let us for a moment consider which is best, to bear a horse’s head up, as in England, or to pull it downwards, as in Germany. In my humble opinion, both are wrong: still there is some science in the German error; whereas in our treatment of the poor animal, we go directly against all mechanical calculation.

In a state of nature, the wild horse (as every-body knows) has two distinct gaits or attitudes. If man, or any still wilder beast, come suddenly upon him, up goes his head; and as he first stalks and then trots gently away, with ears erect, snorting with his nose and proudly snuffing up the air, as if exulting in his freedom; as one fore-leg darts before the other, one sees before one a picture of doubt, astonishment, and hesitation,—all of which feelings seem to rein him, like a troop-horse, on his haunches; but attempt to pursue him, and the moment he defies you—the moment, determining to escape, he shakes his head, and lays himself to his work, how completely does he alter his attitude!—for then down goes his head, and from his ears to the tip of his tail, there is in his vertebræ an undulating action which seems to propel him, which works him along, and which, it is evident, you could not deprive him of, without materially diminishing his speed.

Now, in harness, the horse has naturally the same two gaits or attitudes; and it is quite true that he can start away with a carriage, either in the one or the other; but the means by which he succeeds in this effort, the physical powers which, in each case, he calls into action, are essentially different; for in the one attitude he works by his muscles, and in the other by his own dead, or rather living, weight. In order to grind corn, if any man were to erect a steam-engine over a fine, strong, running stream, we should all say to him, “Why do you not allow your wheel to be turned by cold water instead of by hot? Why do you not avail yourself of the weight of the water, instead of expending your capital in converting it into the power of steam? In short, why do you not use the simple resource which nature has presented ready made to your hand?” In the same way, the Germans might say to us, “We acknowledge a horse can drag a carriage by the power of his muscles, but why do you not allow him to drag it by his weight?”

In France, and particularly in Germany, horses do draw by the weight; and it is to encourage them to raise up their backs, and lean downwards with their heads, that the German collars are made in the way I have described; that with a certain degree of rude science, the horse’s nose is tied to the bottom of his collar, and that the postilion at starting, speaking gently to him, allows him to get himself into a proper attitude for his draught.

The horse, thus treated, leans against the resistance which he meets with, and his weight being infinitely greater than his draught (I mean the balance being in his favour), the carriage follows him without much more strain or effort on his part, than if he were idly leaning his chest against his manger. It is true the flesh of his shoulder may become sore from severe pressure, but his sinews and muscles are comparatively at rest.

Now, as a contrast to this picture of the German horse, let any one observe a pair of English post-horses dragging a heavy weight up a hill, and he will at once see that the poor creatures are working by their muscles, and that it is by sinews and main strength the resistance is overcome; but how can it be otherwise? for their heads are considerably higher than nature intended them to be even in walking, in a state of liberty, carrying nothing but themselves. The balance of their bodies is, therefore, absolutely turned against, instead of leaning in favour of, their draught, and thus cruelly deprived of the mechanical advantage of weight which everywhere else in the universe is duly appreciated, the noble spirit of our high-fed horses induces them to strain and drag the carriage forwards by their muscles; and, if the reader will but pass his hands down the back sinews of any of our stage-coach or post-chaise horses, he will soon feel (though not so keenly as they do) what is the fatal consequence. It is true that, in ascending a very steep hill, an English postilion will occasionally unhook the bearing-reins of his horses; but the poor jaded creatures, trained for years to work in a false attitude, cannot, in one moment, get themselves into the scientific position which the German horses are habitually encouraged to adopt; besides this, we are so sharp with our horses—we keep them so constantly on the qui vive, or, as we term it, in hand—that we are always driving them from the use of their weight to the application of their sinews.

That the figure and attitude of a horse, working by his sinews, are infinitely prouder than when he is working by his weight (there may exist, however, false pride among horses as well as among men), I most readily admit, and, therefore, for carriages of luxury, where the weight bears little proportion to the powers of the two noble animals, I acknowledge that the sinews are more than sufficient for the slight labour required; but to bear up the head of a poor horse at plough, or at any slow, heavy work, is, I humbly conceive, a barbarous error, which ought not to be persisted in.

I may be quite wrong in the way in which I have just endeavoured to account for the fact that horses on the Continent draw heavy weights with apparently greater ease to themselves than our horses, and I almost hope that I am wrong; for laughing, as we all do, at the German and French harness, sneering, as we do, at their ropes, and wondering out loud, as we always do, why they do not copy us, it would not be a little provoking were we, in spite of our fine harness, to find out, that for slow, heavy draught, it is better to tie a horse’s nose downwards, like the German, than upwards, like the English, and that the French way of leaving them at liberty is better than both.

[THE BATH.]

The eager step with which I always walked towards the strong steel bath, is almost indescribable. Health is such an inestimable blessing; it colours so highly the little picture of life; it sweetens so exquisitely the small cup of our existence; it is so like sunshine, in the absence of which the world, with all its beauties, would be, as it once was, without form and void, that I can conceive nothing which a man ought more eagerly to do than get between the stones of that mill which is to grind him young again, particularly when, as in my case, the operation was to be attended with no pain. When, therefore, I had once left my hof to walk to the bath, I felt as if no power on earth could arrest my progress.

The oblong slated building, which contains the famous waters of Langen-Schwalbach, is plain and unassuming in its elevation, and very sensibly adapted to its purpose. The outside walls are plastered, and coloured a very light red. There are five-and-twenty windows in front, with an arcade or covered walk beneath them, supported by an equal number of pilasters, connected together by Saxon arches. On entering the main door, which is in the centre, the great staircase is immediately in front, and close to it, on the left, there sits a man, from whom the person about to bathe purchases his ticket, for which he pays forty-eight kreuzers, about sixteen pence.

The Pauline spring is conducted to the baths on the upper story; the Wein brunnen supplies those below on the left of the staircase; the strong Stahl, or steel brunnen, those on the right; all these baths opening into passages, which, in both stories, extend the whole length of the building. At the commencement of each hour, there was always a great bustle between the people about to be washed, and those who had just undergone the operation. A man and woman attend above and below, and, quite regardless of their sex, every person was trying to prevail upon either of these attendants to let the old water out of the bath, and to turn the hot and cold cocks which were to replenish it. Restlessness and anxiety were depicted in every countenance; however, in a few minutes, a calm having ensued, the water was heard rushing into fifteen or sixteen baths on each floor. Soon again the poor pair were badgered and tormented by various voices, from trebles down to contra-bassos, all calling to them to stop the cocks. With a thermometer in one hand, a great wooden shovel in the other, and a face as wet as if it had just emerged from the bath, each servant hurried from one bath to another, adjusting them all to about 25° of Reaumur. Door after door was then heard to shut, and in a few minutes the passage became once again silent. A sort of wicker basket, containing a pan of burning embers, was afterwards given to any person who, for the sake of having warm towels, was willing to breathe carbonic acid gas.

As soon as the patient was ready to enter his bath, the first feeling which crossed his mind, as he stood shivering on the brink, was a disinclination to dip even the foot into a mixture which looked about as thick as a horse-pond, and about the colour of mullagitawny soup. However, having come as far as Langen-Schwalbach, there was nothing to say, but “en avant,” and so, descending the steps, I got into stuff so deeply coloured with the red oxide of iron, that the body, when a couple of inches below the surface, was invisible. The temperature of the water felt neither hot nor cold; but I was no sooner immersed in it, than I felt it was evidently of a strengthening, bracing nature, and I could almost have fancied myself lying with a set of hides in a tan-pit. The half-hour, which every day I was sentenced to spend in this red decoction, was by far the longest in the twenty-four hours; and I was always very glad when my chronometer, which I always hung on a nail before my eyes, pointed permission to me to extricate myself from the mess. While the body was floating, hardly knowing whether to sink or swim, I found it was very difficult for the mind to enjoy any sort of recreation, or to reflect for two minutes on any one subject; and as half shivering I lay watching the minute hand of the dial, it appeared the slowest traveller in existence.

These baths are said to be very apt to produce head-ache, sleepiness, and other slightly apoplectic symptoms; but surely such effects must proceed from the silly habit of not immersing the head? The frame of man has beneficently been made capable of existing under the line, or near either of the poles of the earth. We know it can even live in an oven in which meat is baking; but, surely, if it were possible to send one half of the body to Iceland while the other was reclining on the banks of Fernando Po, the trial would be exceedingly severe; in as much as nature, never having contemplated such a vagary, has not thought it necessary to provide against it. In a less degree, the same argument applies to bathing, particularly in mineral waters; for even the common pressure of water on the portion of the body which is immersed in it, tends mechanically to push or force the blood towards that part (the head) enjoying a rarer medium; but when it is taken into calculation that the mineral mixture of Schwalbach acts on the body not only mechanically, by pressure, but medicinally, being a very strong astringent, there needs no wizard to account for the unpleasant sensations so often complained of.

For the above reason, I resolved that my head should fare alike with the rest of my system; in short, that it deserved to be strengthened as much as my limbs. It was equally old—had accompanied them in all their little troubles; and, moreover, often and often, when they had sunk down to rest, had it been forced to contemplate and provide for the dangers and vicissitudes of the next day. I, therefore, applied no half remedy—submitted to no partial operation—but resolved that, if the waters of Langen-Schwalbach were to make me invulnerable, the box which held my brains should humbly, but equally, partake of the blessing.

The way in which I bathed, with the reasons which induced me to do so, were mentioned to Dr. Fenner. He made no objection, but in silence shrugged up his shoulders. However, the fact is, in this instance, as well as in many others, he is obliged to prescribe no more than human nature is willing to comply with. And as Germans are not much in the habit of washing their heads,—and even if they were, as they would certainly refuse to dip their sculls into a mixture which stains the hair a deep-red-colour, upon which common soap has not the slightest detergent effect,—the doctor probably feels that he would only lose his influence were he publicly to undergo the defeat of being driven from a system which all men would agree to abominate; indeed, one has only to look at the ladies’ flannel dresses which hang in the yard to dry, to read the truth of the above assertion.

These garments having been several times immersed in the bath, are stained as deep a red as if they had been rubbed with ochre or brickdust; yet the upper part of the flannel is quite as white, and, indeed, by comparison, appears infinitely whiter than ever: in short, without asking to see the owners, it is quite evident that, at Schwalbach, young ladies, and even old ones, cannot make up their minds to stain any part of their fabric which towers above their evening gowns; and, though the rest of their lovely persons are as red as the limbs of the American Indian, yet their faces and cheeks bloom like the roses of York and Lancaster; but the effect of these waters on the skin is so singular, that one has only to witness it to understand that it would be useless for the poor doctor to prescribe to ladies more than a pie-bald application of the remedy.

Although, of course, in coming out of the bath, the patient rubs himself dry, and apparently perfectly clean, yet the rust, by exercise, comes out so profusely, that not only is the linen of those people who bathe stained, but even their sheets are similarly discoloured; the dandy’s neckcloth becomes red; and when the head has been immersed, the pillow in the morning looks as if a rusty thirteen-inch shell had been reposing on it.

To the servant who has cleaned the bath, filled it, and supplied it with towels, it is customary to give each day six kreuzers, amounting to twopence; and, as another example of the cheapness of German luxuries, I may observe, that, if a person chooses, instead of walking, to be carried in a sedan-chair, and brought back to his hof, the price fixed for the two journeys is—threepence.

Having now taken my bath, the next part of my daily sentence was, “to return to the place from whence I came, and there” to drink two more glasses of water from the Pauline. The weather having been unusually hot, in walking to the bath I was generally very much overpowered by the heat of the sun; but on leaving the mixture to walk to the Pauline, I always felt as if his rays were not as strong as myself; I really fancied that they glanced from my frame as from a polished cuirass; and, far from suffering, I enjoyed the walk, always remarking that the cold evaporation proceeding from wet hair formed an additional reason for preventing the blood from rushing upwards. The glass of cold sparkling water which, under the mid-day sun, I received after quitting the bath, from the healthy-looking old goddess of the Pauline, was delicious beyond the powers of description. It was infinitely more refreshing than iced soda water, and the idea that it was doing good instead of harm—that it was medicine, not luxury—added to it a flavour which the mind, as well as the body, seemed to enjoy.

What with the iron in my skin, the rust in my hair, and the warmth which this strengthening mixture imparted to my waistcoat, I always felt an unconquerable inclination to face the hill; and selecting a different path from the one I had taken in the morning, I seldom stopped until I had reached the tip-top of one of the many eminences which overhang the promenade and its beau monde.

The climate of this high table-land was always invigorating; and although the sun was the same planet which was scorching the saunterers in the valley beneath, yet its rays did not take the same hold upon the rare, subtile mountain air.

At this hour the peasants had descended into the town to dine. The fields were, consequently, deserted; yet it was pleasing to see where they had been toiling, and how much of the corn they had cut since yesterday. I derived pleasure from looking at the large heap of potatoes they had been extracting, and from observing that they had already begun to plough the stubble which only two days ago had been standing corn. Though neither man, woman, nor child were to be seen, it was, nevertheless, quite evident that they could only just have vanished; and though I had no fellow-creature to converse with, yet I enjoyed an old-fashioned pleasure in tracing on the ground marks where, at least, human beings had been.

Quite by myself I was loitering on these heights, when I heard the troop of Langen-Schwalbach cows coming through the great wood on my left; and wanting, at the moment, something to do, diving into the forest I soon succeeded in joining the gang. They were driven by a man and a woman, who received for every cow under their care forty-two kreuzers, or fourteen pence, for the six summer months: for this humble remuneration, they drove the cows of Schwalbach every morning into the great woods, to enjoy air and a very little food; three times a-day they conducted them home to be milked, and as often re-ascended to the forest. At the hours of assembling, the man blew a long, crooked, tin horn, which the cows and their proprietors equally well understood. Everybody must be aware, that it is not a very easy job to keep a set of cows together in a forest, as the young ones, especially, are always endeavouring to go astray; however, the two guides had each a curious sort of instrument by which they managed to keep them in excellent subjection. It consisted of a heavy stick about two feet long, with six iron rings, so placed that they could be shaken up and down; and, certainly, if it were to be exhibited at Smithfield, no being there, human or inhuman, would ever guess that it was invented for driving cows; and were he even to be told so, he would not conceive how it could possibly be used for that purpose. Yet, in Nassau, it is the regular engine for propelling cattle of all descriptions.

In driving the cows through the wood, I observed that the man and woman each kept on one flank, the herd leisurely proceeding before them; but if any of the cows attempted to stray—if any of them presumed to lie down—or if any one of them appeared to be in too earnest conversation with a great lumbering creature of her own species, distinguished by a ring through his nose, and a bright iron chain round his neck, the man, and especially the woman, gave two or three shakes with the ring, and if that lecture was not sufficient the stick, rings and all, flew through the air, inflicting a blow which really appeared sufficient to break a rib, and certainly much more than sufficient to dislodge an eye.

It was easy to calculate the force of this uncouth weapon, by the fear the poor animals entertained of it; and I observed, that no sooner did the woman shake it at an erring, disobedient cow, than the creature at once gave up the point, and hurried forwards.

In the stillness of the forest, nothing could sound wilder than the sudden rattling of these rings, and almost could one fancy that beings in chains were running between the trees. A less severe discipline would, probably, not be sufficient. However, I must record that the severity was exercised with a considerable proportion of discretion; for I particularly remarked that, when cows were in a certain interesting situation, their rude drivers, with unerring aim, always pelted them on the hocks.

Leaving the cows, and descending the mountain’s side, I strolled through the little mountain hamlet of Wambach. In the middle of this simple retreat, there stood, overtopping most of the other dwellings, a tall slender hut, on the thatched roof of which was a wooden pent-house, containing a bell, which, three times a-day, tolled for reveille, noon-tide meal, and curfew. As the human tongue speaks by the impulse of the mind, so did this humble clapper move in obedience to the dictates of a village watch, which, when out of order, the parish was bound to repair.

From the upper windows of the principal house, I saw suspended festoons, or strings of apples cut in slices, and exposed to the sun to dry. A lad, smoking his pipe, was driving his mother’s cow to fetch grass from the valley. Women, with pails in their hands, were proceeding towards the spring for water; others were returning to their homes heavily laden with fagots, while several of their idle children were loitering about before their doors.

But, as I had still another dose of water to drink from the Pauline, I hastened to the brunnen, and having emptied my glass (which, like the outside of a bottle of iced water, was instantaneously covered by condensation with dew), I found that it was time to prepare myself (as I beg leave to prepare my reader) for that very lengthy ceremony—a German dinner.

[THE DINNER.]

During the fashionable season at Langen-Schwalbach, the dinner hour at all the Saals is one o'clock. From about noon scarcely a stranger is to be seen; but a few minutes before the bell strikes one, the town exhibits a picture curious enough, when it is contrasted with the simple costume of the villagers, and the wild-looking country which surrounds them. From all the hofs and lodging-houses, a set of demure, quiet-looking, well-dressed people are suddenly disgorged, who, at a sort of funeral pace, slowly advance towards the Allee Saal, the Goldene Kette, the Kaiser Saal, and one or two other houses, où l'on dîne. The ladies are not dressed in bonnets, but in caps, most of which are quiet; the rest being of those indescribable shapes which are to be seen in London or Paris. Whether the stiff-stand-up frippery of bright-red ribands was meant to represent a house on fire, or purgatory itself—whether those immense white ornaments were intended for reefs of coral or not—it is out of my department to guess—ladies’ caps being riddles only to be explained by themselves.

With no one to affront them—with no fine-powdered footman to attend them—with nothing but their appetites to direct them—and with their own quiet conduct to protect them—old ladies, young ladies, elderly gentlemen, and young ones, were seen slowly and silently picking their way over the rough pavement. There was no greediness in their looks; nor, as they proceeded, did they lick their lips, or show any other signs of possessing any appetite at all; they looked much more as if they were coming from a meal, than going to one: in short, they seemed to be thinking of anything in the dictionary but the word dinner. And when one contrasted or weighed the quietness of their demeanour, against the enormous quantity of provisions they were placidly about to consume, one could not help admitting that these Germans had certainly more self-possession, and could better muzzle their feelings, than many of the best-behaved people in the universe.

Seated at the table of the Allee Saal, I counted a hundred and eighty people at dinner in one room. To say, in a single word, whether the fare was good or bad, would be quite impossible, it being so completely different to anything ever met with in England.

To my simple taste, the cooking is most horrid; still there were now and then some dishes, particularly sweet ones, which I thought excellent. With respect to the made-dishes, of which there was a great variety, I beg to offer to the reader a formula I invented, which will teach him (should he ever come to Germany) what to expect. The simple rule is this:—let him taste the dish, and if it be not sour, he may be quite certain that it is greasy;—again, if it be not greasy, let him not eat thereof, for then it is sure to be sour. With regard to the order of the dishes, that, too, is unlike any thing which Mrs. Glasse ever thought of. After soup, which all over the world is the alpha of the gourmand’s alphabet, the barren meat from which the said soup has been extracted is produced. Of course it is dry, tasteless, withered-looking stuff, which a Grosvenor-square cat would not touch with its whisker; but this dish is always attended by a couple of satellites—the one a quantity of cucumbers dressed in vinegar, the other a black, greasy sauce; and if you dare to accept a piece of this flaccid beef, you are instantly thrown between Scylla and Charybdis; for so sure as you decline the indigestible cucumber, souse comes into your plate a deluge of the greasy sauce! After the company have eaten heavily of messes which it would be impossible to describe, in comes some nice salmon—then fowls—then puddings—then meat again—then stewed fruit; and after the English stranger has fallen back in his chair quite beaten, a leg of mutton majestically makes its appearance!

I dined just two days at the Saals, and then bade adieu to them for ever. Nothing which this world affords could induce me to feed in this gross manner. The pig, who lives in his sty, would have some excuse; but it is really quite shocking to see any other animal overpowering himself at mid-day with such a mixture and superabundance of food. Yet only think what a compliment all this is to the mineral waters of Langen-Schwalbach; for if people who come here and live in this way morning, noon, and night can, as I really believe they do, return to their homes in better health than they departed, how much more benefit ought any one to derive, who, maintaining a life of simplicity and temperance, would resolve to give them a fair trial! In short, if the cold iron waters of the Pauline can be of real service to a stomach full of vinegar and grease, how much more effectually ought they to tinker up and repair the inside of him who has sense enough to sue them in formâ pauperis.

Dr. Fenner was told that I had given up dining in public, as I preferred a single dish at home; and he was then asked, with a scrutinizing look, whether eating so much was not surely very bad for those who were drinking the waters? The poor doctor quietly shrugged up his shoulders,—silently looking at his shoes,—and what else could he have done? Himself an inhabitant of Langen-Schwalbach, of course he was obliged to feel the pulse of his own fellow-citizens, as well as that of the stranger; and into what a fever would he have thrown all the innkeepers—what a convulsion would he have occasioned in the village itself—were he to have presumed to prescribe temperance to those wealthy visiters by whose intemperance the community hoped to prosper! He might as well have gone into the fields to burn the crops, as thus wickedly to blight the golden harvest which Langen-Schwalbach had calculated on reaping during the short visit of its consumptive guests.

Our dinner is now over; but I must not rise from the table of the Allee Saal until I have made an 'amende honorable' to those against whose vile cooking I have been railing, for it is only common justice to German society to offer an humble testimony that nothing can be more creditable to any nation; one can scarcely imagine a more pleasing picture of civilized life, than the mode in which society is conducted at these watering-places.

The company which comes to the brunnens for health, and which daily assembles at dinner, is of a most heterogeneous description, being composed of Princes, Dukes, Barons, Counts, &c., down to the petty shopkeeper, and even the Jew of Frankfort, Mainz, and other neighbouring towns; in short, all the most jarring elements of society, at the same moment, enter the same room, to partake together the same one shilling and eight-penny dinner.

Even to a stranger like myself, it was easy to perceive that the company, as they seated themselves round the table, had herded together in parties and coteries, neither acquainted with each other, nor with much disposition to be acquainted—still, all those invaluable forms of society which connect the guests of any private individual were most strictly observed; and, from the natural good sense and breeding in the country this happy combination was apparently effected without any effort. No one seemed to be under any restraint, yet there was no freezing formality at one end of the table, nor rude boisterous mirth at the other. With as honest good appetites as could belong to any set of people under the sun, I particularly remarked that there was no scrambling for favourite dishes;—to be sure, here and there, an eye was seen twinkling a little brighter than usual, as it watched the progress of any approaching dish which appeared to be unusually sour or greasy, but there was no greediness—no impatience—nothing which seemed for a single moment to interrupt the general harmony of the scene; and, though I scarcely heard a syllable of the buzz of conversation which surrounded me; although every moment I felt less and less disposed to attempt to eat what for some time had gradually been coagulating in my plate; yet, leaning back in my chair, I certainly did derive very great pleasure, and I hope a very rational enjoyment, in looking upon so pleasing a picture of civilized life.

In England we are too apt to designate, by the general term “society,” the particular class, clan, or clique in which we ourselves may happen to move, and if that little speck be sufficiently polished, people are generally quite satisfied with what they term “the present state of society;” yet there exists a very important difference between this ideal civilization of a part or parts of a community, and the actual civilization of the community as a whole: and surely no country can justly claim for itself that title, until not only can its various members move separately among each other, but until, if necessary, they can all meet and act together. Now, if this assertion be admitted, I fear it cannot be denied that we islanders are very far from being as highly polished as our continental neighbours, and that we but too often mistake odd provincial habits of our own invention, for the broad, useful, current manners of the world.

In England, each class of society, like our different bands of trades, is governed by its own particular rules. There is a class of society which has very gravely, and for aught I care very properly, settled that certain food is to be eaten with a fork—that others are to be launched into the mouth with a spoon; and that to act against these rules (or whims) shows “that the man has not lived in the world.” At the other end of society there are, one has heard, also rules of honour, prescribing the sum to be put into a tin money-box, so often as the pipe shall be filled with tobacco, with various other laws of the same dark caste or complexion. These conventions, however, having been firmly established among each of the many classes into which our country people are subdivided, a very considerable degree of order is everywhere maintained; and, therefore, let a foreigner go into any sort of society in England, and he will find it is apparently living in happy obedience to its own laws; but if any chance or convulsion brings these various classes of society, each laden with its own laws, into general contact, a sort of Babel confusion instantly takes place, each class loudly calling its neighbour to order in a language it cannot comprehend. Like the followers of different religions, the one has been taught a creed which has not even been heard of by the other; there is no sound bond of union—no reasonable understanding between the parties: in short, they resemble a set of regiments, each of which having been drilled according to the caprice or fancy of its colonel, appears in very high order on its own parade, yet, when all are brought together, form an unorganized and undisciplined army; and in support of this theory, is it not undeniably true, that it is practically impossible for all ranks of society to associate together in England with the same ease and inoffensive freedom which characterizes similar meetings on the Continent? And yet a German duke or a German baron is as proud of his rank, and rank is as much respected in his country as it is in our country.

There must, therefore, in England exist somewhere or other a radical fault. The upper classes will of course lay the blame on the lowest—the lowest will abuse the highest—but may not the error lie between the two? Does it not rather rest upon both? and is it not caused by the laws which regulate our small island society being odd, unmeaning, imaginary, and often fictitious, instead of being stamped with those large intelligible characters which make them at once legible to all the inhabitants of the globe?

For instance, on the Continent, every child, almost before he learns his alphabet, before he is able even to crack a whip, is taught what is termed in Europe civility; a trifling example of which I witnessed this very morning. At nearly a league from Langen-Schwalbach, I walked up to a little boy who was flying a kite on the top of a hill, in the middle of a field of oat stubble. I said not a word to the child—scarcely looked at him—but as soon as I got close to him, the little village clod, who had never breathed anything thicker than his own mountain air, actually almost lost string, kite, and all, in an effort, quite irresistible, which he made to bow to me, and take off his hat. Again, in the middle of the forest, I saw the other day three labouring boys laughing together, each of their mouths being, if possible, wider open than the others; however, as they separated, off went their caps, and they really took leave of each other in the very same sort of manner with which I yesterday saw the Landgrave of Hesse Hombourg return a bow to a common postilion.

It is this general, well founded, and acknowledged system which binds together all classes of society. It is this useful, sensible system, which enables the master of the Allee Saal, as he walks about the room during dinner time, occasionally to converse with the various descriptions of guests who have honoured his table with their presence; for, however people in England would be shocked at such an idea, on the Continent, so long as a person speaks and behaves correctly, he need not fear to give any one offence.

Now, in England, as we all know, we have all sorts of manners, and a man actually scarcely dares to say which is the true idol to be worshipped. We have very noble aristocratic manners;—we have the short, stumpy manners of the old-fashioned English country gentleman;—we have thick, dandified manners;—blackstock military manners;—“your free and easy manners” (which, by the by, on the Continent, would be translated “no manners at all.”) We have the ledger manners of a steady man of business;—the last-imported monkey or ultra-Parisian manners;—manners not only of a school-boy, but of the particular school to which he belongs;—and, lastly, we have the party-coloured manners of the mobility, who, until they were taught the contrary, very falsely flattered themselves that on the throne they would find the “ship, a-hoy!” manners of “a true British sailor.”

Now, with respect to these motley manners, these “black spirits and white, blue spirits and grey,” which are about as different from each other as the manners of the various beasts collected by Noah in his ark, it may at once be observed, that (however we ourselves may admire them) there are very few of them indeed which are suited to the Continent; and consequently, though Russians, Prussians, Austrians, French, and Italians, to a certain degree, can anywhere assimilate together, yet, somehow or other, our manners—(never mind whether better or worse)—are different. Which, therefore, I am seriously disposed to ask of myself, are the most likely to be right? the manners of “the right little, tight little island,” or those of the inhabitants of the vast Continent of Europe?

The reader will, I fear, think that my dinner reflections have partaken of the acidity of the German mess which lay so long before me untouched in my plate; and at my observations I fully expect he will shake his head, as I did when, afterwards, expecting to get something sweet, I found my mouth nearly filled with a substance very nearly related to sour-crout. Should the old man’s remarks be unpalatable, they are not more so than was his meal; and he begs to apologize for them by saying, that had he, as he much wished, been able to eat, he would not, against his will, have been driven to reflect.

[THE PROMENADE.]

A few minutes after the dessert had been placed on the table of the Allee Saal, one or two people from different chairs rose and glided away; then up got as many more, until, in about a quarter of an hour, the whole company had quietly vanished, excepting here and there, round the vast circumference of the table, a couple, who, not having yet finished their phlegmatic, long-winded argument, sat like pairs of oxen, with their heads yoked together.

It being yet only three o'clock in the day, and as people did not begin to drink the waters again till about six, there was a long, heavy interval, which was spent very much in the way in which English cows pass their time when quite full of fine red clover,—bending their fore knees, they lie down on the grass to ruminate.

As it was very hot at this hour, the ladies, in groups of two, three, and four, with coffee before them on small square tables, sat out together in the open air, under the shade of the trees. Most of them commenced knitting; but, at this plethoric hour, I could not help observing that they made several hundred times as many stitches as remarks. A few of the young men, with cigars in their mouths, meandered, in dandified silence, through these parties of ladies; but almost all the German lords of the creation had hidden themselves in holes and corners, to enjoy smoking their pipes; and surely nothing can be more filthy—nothing can be a greater waste of time and intellect than this horrid habit. If tobacco were even a fragrant perfume, instead of stinking as it does, still the habit which makes it necessary to a human being to carry a large bag in one of his coat-pockets, and an unwieldy crooked pipe in the other, would be unmanly; inasmuch as, besides creating an artificial want, it encumbers him with a real burden, which, both on horseback and on foot, impedes his activity and his progress; but when it turns out that this sad artificial want is a nasty, vicious habit,—when it is impossible to be clean if you indulge in it,—when it makes your hair and clothes smell most loathsomely,—when you absolutely pollute the fresh air as you pass through it:—when, besides all this, it corrodes the teeth, injures the stomach, and fills with red inflammatory particles the naturally cool, clear, white brain of man, it is quite astonishing that these Germans, who can act so sensibly during so many hours of the day, should not have strength of mind enough to trample their tobacco-bags under their feet—throw their reeking, sooty pipes behind them, and learn (I will not say from the English, but from every bird and animal in a state of nature) to be clean; and certainly whatever faults there may be in our manners, our cleanliness is a virtue which, above every nation I have ever visited, pre-eminently distinguishes us in the world. During the time which was spent in this stinking vice, I observed that people neither interrupted each other, nor did they very much like to be interrupted; in short, it was a sort of siesta with the eyes open, and with smoke coming out of the mouth. Sometimes gazing out of the window of his hof, I saw a German baron, in a tawdry dressing-gown and scullcap (with an immense ring on his dirty forefinger), smoking, and pretending to be thinking; sometimes I winded a creature who, in a similar attitude, was seated on the shady benches near the Stahl brunnen; but these were only exceptions to the general rule, for most of the males had vanished, one knew not where, to convert themselves into automatons which had all the smoky nuisance of the steam-engine—without its power.

At about half-past five or six o'clock, “the world” began to come to life again; the ladies with their knitting needles lying in their laps, gradually began to talk to each other, some even attempting to laugh. Group rising after group, left the small white painted tables and empty coffee-cups round which they had been sitting, and in a short time, the walks to the three brunnens in general, and to the Pauline in particular, were once again thronged with people; and as slowly, and very slowly, they walked backwards and forwards, one again saw German society in its most amiable and delightful point of view. A few of the ladies, particularly those who had young children, were occasionally accompanied through the day by a nice steady, healthy-looking young woman, whose dress (being without cap or bonnet, with a plain cloth shawl thrown over a dark cotton gown) at once denoted that she was a servant.

The distinction in her dress was marked in the extreme, yet it was pleasing to see that there was no necessity to carry it farther, the woman appearing to be so well behaved, that there was little fear of her giving offence. Whenever her mistress stopped to talk to any of her friends, this attendant became a harmless listener to the conversation, and when a couple of families, seated on a bank, were amusing each other with jokes and anecdotes, one saw by the countenances of these quiet-looking young people, who were also permitted to sit down, that they were enjoying the story quite as much as the rest.

In England, our fine people would of course be shocked at the idea of thus associating with, or rather sitting in society with their servants, and on account of the manners of our servants, it certainly would not be agreeable; however, if we had but one code, instead of having one hundred and fifty thousand (for I quite forgot to insert in my long list the manners of a fashionable lady’s maid), this would not be the case; for then English servants, like German servants, would learn to sit in the presence of their superiors without giving any offence at all. But besides observing how harmlessly these German menials conducted themselves, I must own I could not help reflecting what an advantage it was, not only to them, but to the humble hovel to which, when they married, they would probably return—in short, to society, that they should thus have had an opportunity of witnessing the conduct, and of listening to the conversation of quiet, sensible, moral people, who had had the advantages of a good education.

Of course, if these young people were placed on high wages—tricked out with all the cast-off finery of their mistresses—and if laden with these elements of corruption, and hopelessly banished from the presence of their superiors, they were day after day, and night after night, to be stewed up together with stewards, butlers, &c., in the devil’s frying-pan—I mean, that den of narrow-minded iniquity, a housekeeper’s room—of course, these strong, bony, useful servants would very soon dress as finely, and give themselves all those airs for which an English lady’s maid is so celebrated even in her own country; but, in Germany, good sense and poverty have as yet firmly and rigidly prescribed, not only the dress which is to distinguish servants from their masters, but that, with every rational indulgence, with every liberal opportunity of raising themselves in their own estimation, they shall be fed and treated in a manner and according to a scale, which, though superior, still bears a due relation to the humble station and habits in which they were born and bred. Of course, servants trained in this manner cost very little, yet if they are not naturally ill-disposed, there is every thing to encourage them in good behaviour, with very little to lead them astray. They are certainly not, like our servants, clothed in satin, fine linen, and superfine cloth; nor like Dives himself, do they fare sumptuously every day, but I believe they are all the happier, and infinitely more at their ease, for being kept to their natural station in life, instead of being permitted to ape an appearance for which their education has not fitted them, or repeat fine slip-slop sentiments which they do not understand.

However, it is not our servants who deserve to be blamed; they are quite right to receive high wages, wear veils, kid gloves, superfine cloth, give themselves airs, mock the manners of their lords and ladies, and to farcify below stairs the “Comedy of Errors,” which they catch an occasional glimpse of above; in short, to do as little, consume as much, and be as expensive and troublesome as possible. No liberal person can blame them, but it is, I fear, on our heads that all their follies must rest; we have no one but ourselves to blame, and until a few of the principal families in England, for the credit and welfare of the country, agree together to lower the style and habits of their servants, and by a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together, to break the horrid system which at present prevails,—the distinction between the honest ploughman, who whistles along the fallow, and his white-faced, powder-headed, silver-laced, scarlet-breached, golden-gartered brother in London, must be as strikingly ridiculous as ever: the one must remain an honour, the other a discredit, to the wealth of a country which (we all say unjustly) has been called by its enemy a “nation of shopkeepers.”

If once the system were to be blown up, thousands of honest, well-meaning servants would, I believe, rejoice; and while the aristocracy and wealthier classes would in fact be served at least as well as ever, the middle ranks, and especially all people of small incomes, would be relieved beyond description from an unnatural and unnecessary burden which but too often embitters all their little domestic arrangements. There can be no points of contrast between Germany and England more remarkable than that, in the one country, people of all incomes are supported and relieved in proportion to the number of their servants, while in the other they are tormented and oppressed. Again, that in the one country, servants humbly dressed, and humbly fed, live in a sort of exalted and honourable intercourse with their masters; while, in the other, servants highly powdered, and grossly fed, are treated de haut en bas, in a manner which is not to be seen on the Continent.

The enormous wealth of England is the commercial wonder of the world, yet every reflecting man who looks at our debt, at the immense fortunes of individuals, and at the levelling, unprincipled, radical spirit of the age, must see that there exist among us elements which may possibly some day or other furiously appear in collision. The great country may yet live to see distress; and in the storm, our commercial integrity, like an over weighted vessel, may, for aught we know, founder and go down, stern foremost. I therefore most earnestly say, should this calamity ever befall us, let not foreigners be entitled, in preaching over our graves, to pronounce, “that we were a people who did not know how to enjoy prosperity—that our money, like our blood, flew to our heads—that our riches corrupted our minds—and that it was absolutely our enormous wealth which sunk us.”

Without saying one other word, I will only again ask, is it or is it not the interest of our upper classes to countenance this island system?

Should it be argued, that they ought not to be blamed because vulgar, narrow-minded people are foolish enough to ruin themselves in a vain attempt to copy them, I reply, that they must take human nature, good and bad, not as it ought to be, but as it is; and that, after all, it is no compliment to the high station they hold, that the middle and lower classes will absolutely ruin themselves in overfeeding and overdressing their servants—in short, in following any bad example which such high authority may irrationally decree to be fashionable. But to return to the Promenade.

From everlastingly vibrating backwards and forwards on this walk, one gets so well acquainted with the faces of one’s comrades, that it is easy to note the arrival of any stranger, who, however, after having made two or three turns, is considered as received into, and belonging to, the ambulatory community.

In constantly passing the people on the promenade, one occasionally heard a party talking French. During the military dominion of Napoleon, that language, of course, flooded the whole of the high duchy of Nassau as completely as almost the rest of Europe: a strong ebb or re-action, however, has of late years taken place, and in Prussia, for instance, the common people do not like even to hear the language pronounced. On the other hand, thanks to Sir Walter Scott, Lord Byron, and other worn-out literary labourers, now resting in their graves, our language is beginning to make an honest progress; and even in France it is becoming fashionable to display in literary society a flower or two culled from that North border, the Jardin Anglais.

As a passing stranger, the word I heard pronounced on the promenade the oftenest was “Ja! Ja!” and it really seemed to me that German women to all questions invariably answer in the affirmative, for “Ja! Ja!” was repeated by them, I know, from morning till night, and, for aught I know, from night till morning.

As almost every stranger at Langen-Schwalbach, as well as several of its inhabitants, were at this hour on the promenade, the three brunnens were often surrounded by more open mouths than the women in attendance could supply. The old mother at the Pauline was therefore always assisted in the evening by her daughter, who, without being at all handsome, was, like her parent, a picture of robust, ruddy health; and to poor withered people, who came to them to drink, it was very satisfactory indeed to see the practical effect which swallowing and baling out this water from morning till night had had on these two females; and as they stood in the burning sun bending downwards into the brunnen, to fill the glasses which in all directions converged towards them, it was curious to observe the different descriptions of people who from every point of Europe (except England) had surrounded one little well. As I earnestly looked at their various figures and faces, I could not help feeling that it was quite impossible for the goddess Pauline to cure them all: for I saw a tall, gaunt, brown, hard-featured, lantern-jawed officer, à demi-solde, the sort of fellow that the French call “un gros maigre,” drinking by the side of a red-faced, stuffy, stumpy, stunted little man, who seemed made on purpose to demonstrate that the human figure, like the telescope, could be made portable.—What in the whole world (I mumbled to myself) can be the matter with that very nice, fresh, comfortable, healthy-looking widow? Or what does that huge, unwieldy man in the broad-brimmed hat require from the Pauline?—Surely he is already about as full as he can hold? And that poor sick girl, who has just borrowed the glass from her withered, wrinkled, skinny, little aunt? Can the same prescription be good for them both? A couple of nicely-dressed children are extending their little glasses to drink the water with milk; and see! that gang of countrymen, who have stopped their carts on the upper road, are racing and chasing each other down the bank to crowd round the brunnen! Is it not curious to observe that in such a state of perspiration they can drink such deadly cold water with impunity? But this really is the case; and whether it is burning hot, or raining a deluge, this simple medicine is always agreeable, and no sooner is it swallowed, than, like the fire in the grate, it begins to warm its new mansion.

Such was the scene, and such was the effect, daily witnessed round one of nature’s simplest and most beneficent remedies. All the drinkers seemed to be satisfied with the water, which, I believe, has only one virtue, that of strengthening the stomach; yet it is this solitary quality which has made it cure almost every possible disorder of body and mind: for though people with an ankle resting on a knee sometimes mysteriously point to their toes, and sometimes as solemnly lay their hands upon their foreheads, yet I rather believe that almost every malady to which the human frame is subject is either by highways or byways connected with the stomach; and I must own I never see a fashionable physician mysteriously counting the pulse of a plethoric patient, or, with a silver spoon on his tongue, importantly looking down his red, inflamed gullet (so properly termed by Johnson “the meat-pipe”), but I feel a desire to exclaim, “Why not tell the poor gentleman at once—Sir! you've eaten too much, you've drunk too much, and you've not taken exercise enough!” That these are the main causes of almost every one’s illness, there can be no greater proof, than that those savage nations which live actively and temperately have only one great disorder—death. The human frame was not created imperfect—it is we ourselves who have made it so; there exists no donkey in creation so overladen as our stomachs, and it is because they groan under the weight so cruelly imposed upon them, that we see people driving them before them in herds to drink at one little brunnen.

A list of the strangers visiting Bad-Ems, Langen-Schwalbach, and Schlangenbad, is published twice a week, and circulated on all the promenades. From it, I find that there are 1200 visiters at Schwalbach alone—an immense number for so small a place. Still, the habits of the people are so quiet, that it does not at all bear the appearance of an English watering-place, and certainly I never before existed in a society where people are left so completely to go their own ways. Whether I stroll up and down the promenade or about the town, whether I mount the hill or ramble into distant villages, no one seems to notice me any more than if I had been born there; and yet out of the 1200 strangers, I happen to be the only specimen to be seen of Old England. No one knows that I have given up feasting in public, for it is not the custom to dine always at the same house; but when one o'clock comes, people go to the Allee Saal, Goldene Kette, &c. just as they feel disposed at the moment.

There are no horses to be hired at Schwalbach, but a profusion of donkeys and mules. It is a pretty, gaudy sight to witness a group of these animals carrying ladies in their parti-coloured bonnets, &c. descending one of the hills. The saddles are covered with coarse scarlet, or bright blue cloth, and the donkey always wears a fine red brow-band; nevertheless, under these brilliant colours, to the eye of a cognoscente, it is too easy to perceive that the poor creatures are sick in their hearts of their finery, and that they are tired, almost unto death, of carrying one large curious lady after another to see Hohenstein, Adolfseck, and other lions, which without metaphor are actually consuming the carcasses of these unhappy asses. The other day I myself hired one, but not being allowed to have the animal alone, I was obliged to submit to be followed by the owner, who, by order of the Duke, was dressed in a blue smockfrock, girded by a buff belt.

I found that I could not produce the slightest effect on the animal’s pace, but that if the man behind me only shook his stick, down went the creature’s long ears, and on we trotted. By this arrangement, I was hurried by objects which I wished to look at, and obliged to crawl before what I was exceedingly anxious to leave behind; and altogether it was travelling so very much like a bag of sand, that ever since I have much preferred propelling myself.

[THE SCHWEIN-GENERAL.]

Every morning at half-past five o'clock, I hear, as I am dressing, the sudden blast of an immense long wooden horn, from which always proceed the same four notes. I have got quite accustomed to this wild reveille, and the vibration has scarcely subsided, it is still ringing among the distant hills, when, leisurely proceeding from almost every door in the street, behold a pig! Some, from their jaded, careworn, dragged appearance, are evidently leaving behind them a numerous litter; others are great, tall, monastic, melancholy-looking creatures, which seem to have no other object left in this wretched world than to become bacon; while others are thin, tiny, light-hearted, brisk, petulant piglings, with the world and all its loves and sorrows before them. Of their own accord these creatures proceed down the street to join the herdsman, who occasionally continues to repeat the sorrowful blast from his horn.

Gregarious, or naturally fond of society, with one curl in their tails, and with their noses almost touching the ground, the pigs trot on, grunting to themselves and to their comrades, halting only whenever they come to anything they can manage to swallow.

I have observed that the old ones pass all the carcasses, which, trailing to the ground, are hanging before the butchers’ shops, as if they were on a sort of parole d'honneur not to touch them; the middle-aged ones wistfully eye this meat, yet jog on also, while the piglings, who (so like mankind) have more appetite than judgment, can rarely resist taking a nibble; yet, no sooner does the dead calf begin again to move, than from the window immediately above out pops the head of a butcher, who, drinking his coffee, whip in hand, inflicts a prompt punishment, sounding quite equal to the offence. As I have stated, the pigs, generally speaking, proceed of their own accord; but shortly after they have passed, there comes down our street a little bareheaded, barefooted, stunted dab of a child, about eleven years old,—a Flibbertigibbet sort of creature, which, in a drawing, one would express by a couple of blots, the small one for her head, the other for her body; while, streaming from the latter, there would be a long line ending in a flourish, to express the immense whip which the child carries in its hand. This little goblin page, the whipper-in, attendant, or aid-de-camp of the old pig-driver, facetiously called, at Langen-Schwalbach, the “Schwein-General,” is a being no one looks at, and who looks at nobody. Whether the hofs of Schwalbach are full of strangers, or empty—whether the promenades are occupied by princes or peasants—whether the weather be good or bad, hot or rainy, she apparently never stops to consider; upon these insignificant subjects it is evident she never for a moment has reflected. But such a pair of eyes for a pig have perhaps seldom beamed from human sockets! The little intelligent urchin knows every house from which a pig ought to have proceeded; she can tell by the door being open or shut, and even by footmarks, whether the creature has joined the herd, or whether, having overslept itself, it is still snoring in its sty—a single glance determines whether she shall pass a yard or enter it; and if a pig, from indolence or greediness, be loitering on the road, the sting of the wasp cannot be sharper or more spiteful than the cut she gives it. As soon as finishing with one street, she joins her General in the main road, the herd slowly proceed down the town.

On meeting them this morning, they really appeared to have no hams at all; their bodies were as flat as if they had been squeezed in a vice, and when they turned sideways, their long sharp noses, and tucked-up bellies, gave to their profile the appearance of starved greyhounds.

As I gravely followed this grunting, unearthly-looking herd of unclean spirits, through that low part of Langen-Schwalbach which is solely inhabited by Jews, I could not help fancying that I observed them holding their very breaths, as if a loathsome pestilence were passing; for though fat pork be a wicked luxury—a forbidden pleasure which the Jew has been supposed occasionally in secret to indulge in, yet one may easily imagine that such very lean ugly pigs have not charms enough to lead them astray.

Besides the little girl who brought up the rear, the herd was preceded by a boy of about fourteen, whose duty it was not to let the foremost, the more enterprising, or, in other words, the most empty pigs, advance too fast. In the middle of the drove, surrounded like a shepherd by his flock, slowly stalked the “Schwein-general,” a wan, spectre-looking old man, worn out, or nearly so, by the arduous and every-day duty of conducting, against their wills, a gang of exactly the most obstinate animals in creation. A single glance at his jaundiced, ill-natured countenance was sufficient to satisfy one that his temper had been soured by the vexatious contrarieties and “untoward events” it had met with. In his left hand he held a staff to help himself onwards, while round his right shoulder hung one of the most terrific whips that could possibly be constructed. At the end of a short handle, turning upon a swivel, there was a lash about nine feet long, formed like the vertebræ of a snake, each joint being an iron ring, which, decreasing in size, was closely connected with its neighbour, by a band of hard greasy leather. The pliability, the weight, and the force of this iron whip rendered it an argument which the obstinacy even of the pig was unable to resist; yet, as the old man proceeded down the town, he endeavoured to speak kindly to the herd, and as the bulk of them preceded him, jostling each other, grumbling and grunting on their way, he occasionally exclaimed, in a low, hollow, worn-out tone of encouragement, “Nina! Anina!” drawling of course very long on the last syllable.

If any little savoury morsel caused a contention, stoppage, or constipation on the march, the old fellow slowly unwound his dreadful whip, and by merely whirling it round his head, like reading the Riot Act, he generally succeeded in dispersing the crowd; but if they neglected the solemn warning, if their stomachs prove stronger than their judgments, and if the group of greedy pigs still continued to stagnate—“Arriff!” the old fellow exclaimed, and rushing forwards, the lash whirling round his head, he inflicted, with strength which no one could have fancied he possessed, a smack, that seemed absolutely to electrify the leader. As lightning shoots across the heavens, I observed the culprit fly forwards, and for many yards continuing to sidle towards the left, it was quite evident that the thorn was still smarting in his side; and no wonder, poor fellow! for the blow he received would almost have cut a piece out of a door.

As soon as the herd got out of the town, they began gradually to ascend the rocky, barren mountain which appeared towering above them; and then the labours of the Schwein-general and his staff became greater than ever; for as the animals from their solid column began to extend or deploy themselves into line, it was necessary constantly to ascend and descend the slippery hill, in order to outflank them. “Arriff!” vociferated the old man, striding after one of his rebellious subjects; “Arriff!” in a shrill tone of voice was re-echoed by the lad, as he ran after another; however, in due time the drove reached the ground which was devoted for that day’s exercise, the whole mountain being thus taken in regular succession.

The Schwein-general now halted, and the pigs being no longer called upon to advance, but being left entirely to their own motions, I became exceedingly anxious attentively to observe them.

No wonder, poor reflecting creatures! that they had come unwillingly to such a spot—for there appeared to be literally nothing for them to eat but hot stones and dust; however, making the best of the bargain, they all very vigorously set themselves to work. Looking up the hill, they dexterously began to lift up with their snouts the largest of the loose stones, and then grubbing their noses into the cool ground, I watched their proceedings for a very long time. Their tough wet snouts seemed to be sensible of the quality of every thing they touched; and thus out of the apparently barren ground they managed to get fibres of roots, to say nothing of worms, beetles, or any other travelling insects they met with. As they slowly advanced working up the hill, their ears most philosophically shading their eyes from the hot sun, I could not help feeling how little we appreciate the delicacy of several of their senses, and the extreme acuteness of their instinct.

There exists, perhaps, in creation, no animal which has less justice and more injustice done to him by man than the pig. Gifted with every faculty of supplying himself, and of providing even against the approaching storm, which no creature is better capable of foretelling than a pig, we begin by putting an iron ring through the cartilage of his nose, and having thus barbarously deprived him of the power of searching for, and analyzing, his food, we generally condemn him for the rest of his life to solitary confinement in a sty.

While his faculties are still his own, only observe how, with a bark or snort, he starts if you approach him, and mark what shrewd intelligence there is in his bright twinkling little eye: but with pigs, as with mankind, idleness is the root of all evil. The poor animal finding that he has absolutely nothing to do—having no enjoyment—nothing to look forward to but the pail which feeds him, naturally most eagerly, or, as we accuse him, most greedily, greets its arrival. Having no natural business or diversion—nothing to occupy his brain—the whole powers of his system are directed to the digestion of a superabundance of food. To encourage this, nature assists him with sleep, which, lulling his better faculties, leads his stomach to become the ruling power of his system—a tyrant that can bear no one’s presence but his own. The poor pig, thus treated, gorges himself—sleeps—eats again—sleeps—awakens in a fright—screams—struggles against the blue apron—screams fainter and fainter—turns up the whites of his little eyes—and ...... dies!

It is probably from abhorring this picture, that I know of nothing which is more distressing to me than to witness an indolent man eating his own home-fed pork.

There is something so horridly similar between the life of the human being and that of his victim—their notions on all subjects are so unnaturally contracted—there is such a melancholy resemblance between the strutting residence in the village, and the stalking confinement of the sty—between the sound of the dinner-bell and the rattling of the pail—between snoring in an arm-chair and grunting in clean straw—that, when I contrast the “pig’s countenance” in the dish with that of his lord and master, who, with outstretched elbows, sits leaning over it, I own I always feel it is so hard the one should have killed the other—in short, there is a sort of “Tu quoque, Brute!” moral in the picture, which to my mind is most painfully distressing.

But to return to the Schwein-general, whom, with his horn and whip, I have left on the steep side of a barren mountain.

In this situation do the pigs remain every morning for four hours, enjoying little else than air and exercise. At about nine or ten o'clock, they begin their march homewards, and nothing can form a greater contrast than their entry into their native town does to their exit from it.

Their eager anxiety to get to the dinner-trough that awaits them is almost ungovernable; and they no sooner reach the first houses of the town, than a sort of “sauve qui peut” motion takes place: away each then starts towards his dulce domum; and it is really curious to stand still and watch how very quickly they canter by, greedily grunting and snuffling as if they could smell with their stomachs, as well as their noses, the savoury food which was awaiting them.

At half-past four, the same four notes of the same horn are heard again; the pigs once more assemble—once more tumble over the hot stones on the mountain—once more remain there for four hours—and in the evening once again return to their styes.

Such is the life of the pigs not only of Langen-Schwalbach, but those of every village throughout a great part of Germany: every day of their existence, summer and winter, is spent in the way I have described. The squad consists here of about a hundred and fifty, and for each pig the poor old Schwein-general receives forty kreuzers (about 13d.) for six months’ drilling of each recruit. His income, therefore, is about 20l. a year, out of which he has to pay the board, lodging, and clothing of his two aid-de-camps; and when one considers how unremittingly this poor fellow-creature has to contend with the gross appetites, sulky tempers, and pig-headed dispositions of the swinish multitude, surely not even the most niggardly reformer would wish to curtail his emoluments.

[THE LUTHERAN CHAPEL.]

I have just come from the little Lutheran chapel, and while the picture is fresh before my mind, I will endeavour to describe it.

On entering the church, the service I found had begun, and the first thing that struck me was, that the pulpit was empty, there being no minister of any sort or kind to be seen! The congregation were chaunting a psalm to very much the same sort of drawling tune which one hears in England; yet the difference in their performance of it was very remarkable. As all were singing about as loud as they could, the chorus was certainly too much for the church: indeed, the sound had not only filled its walls, but, streaming out of the doors and every aperture, it had rolled down the main street, where I had met it long before I reached the church. Yet, though it was certainly administered in too strong a dose, it was impossible to help acknowledging that it proceeded from a peasantry who had a gift or natural notion of music, quite superior to anything one meets with in an English village, or even in a London church. The song was simple, and the lungs from which it proceeded were too stout; yet there was nothing to offend the ear: in short, there were no bad faults to eradicate—no nasal whine—no vulgar tremulous mixture of two notes—no awkward attempts at musical finery—but in every bar there was tune and melody, and with apparently no one to guide them, these native musicians proceeded with their psalm in perfect harmony and concert.

As this singing lasted nearly twenty minutes, I had plenty of time to look about me. The church, which with its little spire stands on a gentle eminence above the houses of the main street, is a small oblong building of four windows in length by two in breadth; the glass in these recesses is composed of round, plain, unpainted panes, about the size of a common tea-saucer. The inside of the building is whitewashed: a gallery of unpainted wood, supported by posts very rudely hewn, going nearly round three sides of it. There were no pews, but rows of benches occupied about three-fourths of the body of the church; the remaining quarter (which was opposite to the principal entrance-door) being elevated three steps above the rest. At the back of this little platform, leaning against the wall, there was a pulpit containing only one reading-desk, and above it a sounding-board, surmounted by a gilt image of the sun—the only ornament in the church. In front of the pulpit, between it and the congregation, I observed a small, high, oblong table, covered with a plain white table-cloth, and on the right and left of the pulpit, there existed an odd-looking pew, latticed so closely that no one could see at all perfectly through it.

The three galleries were occupied by men dressed all alike in the common blue cloth Sunday clothes of the country. The benches beneath were filled with women; and as I glanced an eye from one row to another, it was impossible to help regretting the sad progress, or rather devastation, which fashion is making in the national costume even of the little village of Langen-Schwalbach. Three benches nearest to the door were filled with women all dressed in the old genuine “buy a broom” costume of this country—their odd little white caps, their open stays, and their fully-plaited short petticoats seeming to have been cast in one model; in short, they were clad in the native livery of their hills. Next to these were seated four rows of women and girls, who, nibbling at novelty, had ventured to exchange the caps of their female ancestors for plain horn combs; over their stays some had put cotton gowns, the coloured patterns of which seemed to be vulgarly quarrelling among each other for precedence. Next came a row of women in caps, frilled and bedizened.

The Langen-Schwalbach ladies, who occupied the other two benches, and who were seated behind a row of boys immediately before the white table, had absolutely ventured to put on their heads bonnets with artificial flowers, &c.; in short, they had rigged themselves out as fine ladies—wore gloves—tight shoes—blew their noses with handkerchiefs, evidently conceiving themselves (as indeed they were) fit for London, Paris, or any other equally brilliant speck in the fashionable world.

As soon as the singing was over, a dead pause ensued, which lasted for many seconds, and I was wondering from what part of the chapel the next human voice would proceed, when very indistinctly I saw something moving in one of the latticed pews—slowly it glided towards the stair of the pulpit, until mounting above the lattice-work, the uncertain vision changed into a remarkably tall, portly gentleman in black, who was now clearly seen leisurely ascending towards the pulpit, on the right of which hung a large black slate, on which were written, in white chalk, the numbers 414 and 309.

As soon as the clergyman had very gravely glanced his eyes round the whole church, as if to recognise his congregation, he slowly, syllable by syllable, began an extempore address; and the first words had scarcely left his lips when I could not help feeling that I was listening to the deepest—the gravest—and the most impressive voice I ever remember to have heard. But the whole appearance and manner of the man quite surprised me, so completely superior was he to anything I had at all expected to have met with. Indeed, for many minutes, I had given up all hopes of hearing any clergyman at all; certainly not one whose every look, word, and action, seemed to proceed from the deepest thought and reflection. Dressed in a suit of common black clothes, he had apparently nothing to distinguish his holy vocation but the two white bands which are worn by our clergymen, and which appeared to be the only neckcloth he wore. In a loud calm tone of voice, which, perfectly devoid of energy, seemed to be directed not to the hearts but to the understandings of his hearers, he advocated a cause in which he evidently felt that he was triumphant; and the stillness of his attitude, the deep calmness of his voice, and the icy cold deliberation with which he spoke, proved that he was master not only of his subject, but of himself.

Every word he said was apparently visible in his eyes, as if reflected there from his brain. He stood neither entreating, commanding, nor forbidding; but like a man mathematically demonstrating a problem, he was, step by step, steadily laying before the judgment of his hearers truths and arguments which he well knew it was out of their power to deny. When he had reached his climax he suddenly changed his voice, and, apparently conscious of the victory he had gained, in a sort of half-deep tone he began to ask a series of questions, each of which was followed by a long pause; and in these solemn moments, when his argument had gained its victory—when the fabric he had been raising was crowned with success—there was a benignity in the triumph of his unexpected smile, which I could not but admire, as the momentary joy seemed to arise more for the sake of others than for his own.

Occasionally during the discourse he raised a hand towards heaven—occasionally he firmly placed it on the bosom of his own dark cloth waistcoat, and then, slowly extending it towards his congregation, it fell again lifeless to his side; yet these actions, trifling as they were, became very remarkable when contrasted with the motionless attention of the congregation.

At times, an old woman, with the knuckle of her shrivelled finger, would wipe an eye, as if the subject were stealing from her head to her heart; but no show of feeling was apparent in the minister who was addressing her; with apostolic dignity, he coldly proceeded with his argument, and amidst the storm, the tempest of her feelings—he calmly walked upon the wave! Never did I before see a human being listened to with such statue-like attention.

As soon as the discourse was concluded, the psalm was given out—a general rustling of leaves was heard, and in a few moments the whole congregation began, with open barn-door mouths, to sing. During this operation the preacher did not sit up in his pulpit to be stared at, but his presence not being required there, he descended into his pew, where I could just faintly trace him through the lattice-work. Whether he sang or not I do not know; he was probably resting after his fatigue.

The singing lasted a long time—the tune and performance were much what I have already described, and when the psalm came to an end, the same dead pause ensued. It continued rather longer than before; at last the front door of the latticed pew opened, and out walked the tall self-same clergyman in black. As he slowly advanced along the little platform, there was a general rustling of the congregation shutting their books, until he stood directly in front of the little high table covered with the white cloth.

With the same pale, placid dignity of manner, he pronounced a short blessing on the congregation, who all leant forwards, as if anxious to receive it; and then dropping his two arms, which, during this short ceremony, had been extended before him, he turned round, and as he slowly walked towards his latticed cell, the people all shuffled out the other way—until, in a few seconds, the small Lutheran chapel of Langen-Schwalbach was empty.

[THE NEW SCHOOL.]

One morning, during breakfast, I observed several little children passing my window in their best clothes. The boys wore a sort of green sash of oak-leaves, which, coming over the right shoulder, crossed the back and breast, and then winding once round the waist, hung in two ends on the left side. The girls, dressed in common white frocks, had roses in their hair, and held green garlands in their hands. On inquiring the reason of the children being dressed in this way, I found out, with some difficulty, that there was to be a great festival and procession, to celebrate the taking possession of a new school, which, built by the town, was only just completed. Accordingly, following some of the little ones down the main street, I passed this village seminary, whose first birth-day was thus about to be commemorated. It was a substantial building, consisting of a centre, with two square projecting wings, and it was quite large enough to be taken by any stranger for the Hotel-de-Ville of Langen-Schwalbach. Wreaths of oak-leaves were suspended in front, and long verdant garlands from the same trees hung in festoons from one wing to the other. It was impossible to contrast the size of this building with the small houses in its neighbourhood, without feeling how creditable it was to the inhabitants of so small a town thus to show that a portion of the wealth they had mildly sucked from the stranger’s purse was so sensibly and patriotically expended. The scale of the building seemed to indicate that the peasants of Langen-Schwalbach were liberal enough to desire that their children should grow up more enlightened than themselves; and as I passed it, I could not help recollecting, with feelings of deep regret, that although in England there is no art or trade that has not made great improvement and progress, the cramped pater-noster system of our public schools, as well as of our universities, have too long remained almost the only pools stagnant in the country, a fact which can scarcely be reconciled with the rapid progress which our lower orders have lately made in useful knowledge.

After passing this new seminary, I continued descending the main street about one hundred yards, which brought me to a small crowd of people, standing before the old school, into the door of which, creeping under the arms of the people, child after child hurried and disappeared, like a bee going into its hive.

The old school of Langen-Schwalbach is one of the most ancient buildings in the town. Its elevation is fantastic, bordering on the grotesque. The gable seems to be nodding forwards, the hump-backed roof to be sinking in. The wooden frame-work of the house, composed of beams purposely bent into almost every form, has besides been very curiously hewn and carved, and on the front wall, placed most irregularly there are several inscriptions, such as “ora et labora,” “1552,” and then again a sentence in German, dated 1643, describing that in that year the house was repaired. There is also a grotesque image on the wall, of a child hugging a cornucopia, &c., &c. Nevertheless, though all the parts of this ancient edifice are very rude, there is “a method in the madness” with which they are arranged, that, somehow or other, makes the tout ensemble very pleasing; and whether it be admitted to be good-looking or not, its venerable appearance almost any one would be disposed to respect.

I observed that no one entered this door but the children. However, as in this simple, civil country great privileges are granted to strangers (for here, like kings, they can hardly do wrong), I ascended an old rattle-trap staircase, until coming to a landing-place, I found one large room on my left crammed full of little boys, and one on my right overflowing with little girls, these two chambers composing the whole of the building.

On the landing-place I met the three masters, all dressed very respectably in black cloth clothes. The senior was about forty years of age, the two others quiet, nice-looking men of about twenty-six, one of whom, to my very great astonishment, addressed me in English. He spoke the language very well, said he could read it with ease, but added that he had great difficulty in understanding it, unless when spoken very slowly; in short, as an enjoyment through the long-winded evenings of winter, he had actually taught himself our hissing, crabbed language, which he had only heard spoken by a solitary Englishman whose acquaintance he had formed last year.

He seemed not only to be well acquainted with our English authors, but talked very sensibly about the institutions and establishments of our country; in short, he evidently knew a great deal more of England than England knows of Langen-Schwalbach, of the duchy of Nassau, or of many much vaster portions of the globe. He informed me that the school was composed of 150 boys, and about the same number of girls;—that of these 300 children 180 were Protestants, 90 Catholics; and that since the year 1827 the town having agreed to admit to the blessings and advantages of education the children of the Jews, there were twenty little boys of that persuasion, and one girl. Having witnessed the prejudice, and indeed hatred, which Christians and Jews in many countries mutually entertain towards each other, I was not little surprised at the statement thus related to me.

After listening for some time to the tutor, he offered to show me the children, and accordingly with some difficulty we worked our way into the boys room. It was a pretty sight to witness such an assemblage of little fellows with clean shining faces, and their native oak-leaves gave a freshness to the scene which was very delightful.

Among these white-haired laddies, most of whom were from four to eight years of age, it was quite unnecessary to inquire which were the Jew boys, for there each stood, as distinctly marked as their race is all over the face of the globe; yet I must acknowledge they were by far the handsomest children in the room, looking much more like Spaniards than Germans. The chamberfull of little girls would have pleased anybody, so nicely were they dressed, and apparently so well-behaved. Several were exceedingly pretty children, and the garlands they held in their hands, the wreaths of roses which bloomed on their heads, and the smiles that beamed in their faces, formed as pretty a mixture of the animal and vegetable creation as could well be imagined.

In one corner stood the only Jewish girl in the room, and Rebecca herself could not have had a handsomer nose, a pair of brighter eyes, or a more marked expression of countenance. She was more richly dressed than the other village girls—wore a necklace, and I observed a thick gold or brass ring on the forefinger of her left hand. We went several times from one room full of children to the other, and it was really pleasing to see in a state of such thoughtless innocence those who were to become the future possessors of the houses and property of Langen-Schwalbach. All of a sudden, a signal was given to the children to descend, and it became then quite as much as the three masters could do to make them go out of the room hand-in-hand. Down scrambled first the boys, and then more quietly followed the little girls, though not without one or two screams proceeding from those who, in their hurry, had dropped their garlands. One of these green hoops I picked up, and seeing a little girl crying her heart out, I gave it to her, and no balm of Gilead ever worked so sudden a cure; for away she ran, and joined her comrades, laughing.

As soon as the children had all left the two rooms, the three masters descended, and we followed them into the street, where the civil authorities of the town, and almost all the parents of the little ones, had assembled. With great difficulty the children were all collected together in a group, in the open air exactly in front of the school; and when this arrangement was effected, the mayor, two Catholic ministers, two Protestant clergymen, and the three masters, stood exactly in front of the children, facing also the house from which they had proceeded. For some time, the masters and the four Christian ministers stood smiling and talking to each other; however, at last the mayor made a bow, everybody took off their hats, the ministers’ countenances stiffened, and for a few seconds a dead silence ensued. At last the mayor with due ceremony took off his hat, when the youngest of the Lutheran ministers, advancing one step in front, commenced a long address to the children.

What he said I was not near enough to hear; but I saw constantly beaming in his countenance that sort of benevolent smile, which would be natural almost to any one, in addressing so very youthful a congregation. Occasionally he pointed with his hand to heaven, and then, continuing his subject, smiled as if to cheer them on the way; but the little toads, instead of attending to him, were all apparently eager to get to their fine new school, and with roses on their heads, and garlands in their hands, they seemed as if they did not feel that they stood in need of a routing dose of good advice; in short, not one of them appeared to pay the slightest attention to a discourse which could not but have been very interesting to the parents. However, in one respect I must own I was slightly disappointed; the burden of the discourse must have been on the duties and future prospects of the children, and on the honours and advantages of the new school; for I particularly remarked that not once did the clergyman point or address himself to the old building—not a single eye but my own was ever turned towards it, and none but myself seemed to feel for it any regret that it was about to lose a village importance which for so many years it had enjoyed. It was sentenced to be deserted, and walls which had long been enlivened by the cheerful sound of youthful voices, were in their old age suddenly to be bereft of all!

I could not help feeling for the old institution, and when the discourse was ended—when hats had returned to people’s heads, and when the procession of children, followed by the ministers, had already begun to move, I could not for some time take my eyes off the old fabric. The date of 1552, and the rude-looking image of the boy, particularly attracted my attention; however, the old hive was deserted,—the bees had swarmed,—had already hovered in the air, and to their new abode they had all flown away. Jostled from my position by people who were following the procession, I proceeded onwards with the crowd, but not without mumbling to myself—

“Let others hail the rising sun,
I bow to him whose course is run.”

As soon as the children reached their fine new abode, a band, which had been awaiting their arrival, struck up; and in the open air they instantly sung a hymn. The doors were then thrown open, and in high glee the little creatures scrambled up the staircase, and the mayor, clergymen, and schoolmasters having followed, a great rush was made by parents and spectators. I managed to gain a good place, but in a very few moments the room was filled, and so jammed up with people, that they could scarcely raise their hands to wipe the perspiration which soon began to appear very copiously on all faces. It became dreadfully hot, and besides suffering from this cause, I felt by no means happy at a calculation which very unwelcomely kept forcing itself into my mind,—namely, that the immense weight of human flesh which was for the first time trying new beams, might produce a consummation by no means “devoutly to be wished.”

As soon as order was established, and silence obtained, the Catholic minister addressed the children; and when he had finished, the tall Lutheran clergyman, whose description I have already given to the reader, followed in his deepest tone, and with his gravest demeanour; but it was all lost upon the children: indeed it was so hot, and we were so little at our ease, that all were very glad, indeed, to hear him conclude by the word “Amen!”

The children now sang another hymn, which, in a cooler climate, would have been quite beautiful; the mayor made a bow—the thing was at an end, and I believe every one was as much delighted as myself to get once again into pure fresh air.

As I had been told by the teacher that the children would dance and eat in the evening, at four o'clock, I went again to the school at that hour, expecting that there would be what in England would be called “a ball and supper;” however, the supper had come first, and the remains of it were on two long tables. The feast which the little ones had been enjoying had consisted of a slice of white bread and a glass of Rhenish wine for each; and, as soon as I entered the room, two policemen bowed and begged me to be seated. They and their friends were evidently regaling themselves with the wine which had been furnished for the children; however, the little creatures did not seem to want it, and I was very glad to see it inflaming the eyes of the old party, and flushing their cheeks, instead of having a similar effect on the young ones.

It had been settled that the children were to dance; but they were much too young to care for such an amusement. The little boys had got together at one end of the room, and the girls were sitting laughing at the other, both groups being as happily independent as it was possible to be. Sometimes the boys amused themselves with a singing game—one chaunting a line, and all the rest bursting in with the chorus, which, though it contained nearly as much laughter as music, showed that the youngsters were well enough conversant with both. The girls had also their song. As I left the room several of the children were singing on the stairs—all were as happy as I had desired to see them; and yet I firmly believe that the whole festival I have described,—oak-leaves, roses, garlands, festoons, bread, wine, &c., altogether,—could not have cost the town of Langen-Schwalbach ten shillings! Nevertheless, in its history, the opening of a public establishment so useful to future generations, and so creditable to the present one, was an event of no inconsiderable importance.

[THE OLD PROTESTANT CHURCH.]

The old Protestant Church, at the lower extremity of Langen-Schwalbach, has not been preached in for about three years; and being locked up, I had to call for admission at a house in the centre of the town. The man was not at home, but his wife (very busily employed in dressing, against its will, a squalling infant) pointed to the key, which I gravely took from a nail over her head. This venerable building stands, or rather totters, on a small eminence close to the road—long rents in its walls, and the ruinous, decayed state of the mortar, sufficiently denoting its great antiquity. The roof and spire are still covered with slates, which seem fluttering as if about to take their departure. The churchyard continues in the valley to be the only Christian receptacle for the dead; and within its narrow limits, Catholics, Lutherans, and Calvinists end their worldly differences by soundly sleeping together, side by side. Here and there a tree is seen standing at the head of a Protestant’s grave; but though the twig was exclusively planted there, yet its branches, like knowledge, have gradually extended themselves, until they now wave and droop alike over those who, thus joined in death, had, nevertheless, lived in paltry opposition to each other. The rank grass also grows with equal luxuriance over all, as if the turf, like the trees, was anxious to level all human animosities, and to become the winding-sheet or covering of Christian fraternities which ought never to have disputed.

In various parts of the cemetery I observed several worn-out, wooden, triangular monuments on the totter; while others were lying prostrate on the grass—the “hic jacet” being exactly as applicable to each of themselves as to that departed being, whose life and death they had vainly presumed to commemorate. Although the inscriptions recorded by these frail historians were scarcely legible, yet roses and annual flowers, blooming on the grave, plainly showed that there was still in existence some friendly hand, some foot, some heart, that moved with kindly recollection towards the dead. Upon several recent graves of children there were placed, instead of tombstones, the wreaths of artificial flowers, which, during their funeral, had either rested upon the coffin, or had been carried in the hands of parents and friends. The sun and rain—the wind and storm—had blanched the artificial bloom from the red roses, and, of course, had sullied the purity of the white ones; yet this worthless finery, lying upon the newly-moved earth, had probably witnessed unaffected feelings, to which the cold, white marble monument is often a stranger. The little heap of perishable wreaths, so lightly piled one upon the other, was the act, the tribute, the effusion of the moment; it was all the mother had had to record her feelings; it was what she had left behind her, as she tore herself away; and though it could not, I own, be compared to a monument sculptured by an artist, yet, resting above the coffin, it had one intrinsic value, at least—it had been left there by a friend!

At one corner of the churchyard, there was a grave which was only just completed. The living labourer had retired from it; the dead tenant had not yet arrived; but the moment I looked into it, I could not help feeling how any one of our body-snatchers would have rubbed his rough hands, and what rude raptures he would have enjoyed, at observing that the lid of the coffin would be deposited scarcely a foot and a half below the sod. However, in the little duchy of Nassau, human corpses have not yet become coin current in the realm; and whatever may be a man’s troubles during his life, at Langen-Schwalbach he may truly say he will, at least, find rest in the grave.

I know it is very wrong—I know that one is always blamed for bringing before the mind of wealthy people any truth which is at all disagreeable to them; yet on the brink of this grave I could not help feeling how very much one ought to detest the polite Paris and London fashion of smartening up us old people with the teeth and hair of the dead? It always seems to me so unfair, for us who have had our day—who have ourselves been young—to attempt, when we grow old, to deprive the rising generation of the advantage of that contrast which so naturally enhances their beauties. The spring of life, to be justly appreciated and admired, requires to be compared with the snow and storms of winter, and if by chicanery you hide the latter, the sunshine of the former loses a great portion of its beauty. In naked, savage life, there exists no picture on which I have so repeatedly gazed with calm pleasure, as that of the daughter supporting the trembling, dilapidated fabric of the being to whom she owes her birth; indeed, it is as impossible for man to withhold the respect and pity which is due to age whenever it be seen labouring under its real infirmities, as it is for him to contain his admiration of the natural loveliness of youth. The parent and child, thus contrasted, render to each other services of which both appear to be insensible; for the mother does not seem aware how the shattered outlines of her faded frame heighten the robust, blooming beauties of her child, who, in her turn, seems equally unconscious how beautifully and eloquently her figure explains and pleads for the helpless decrepitude of age! In the Babel confusion of our fashionable world, this beautifully arranged contrast of nature, the effect of which no one who has ever seen it can forget, does not exist. Before the hair has grown really grey—before time has imparted to it even its autumnal tint, it is artfully replaced by dark flowing locks, obtained by every revolting contrivance. The grave itself is attacked—our living dowagers of the present day do not hesitate to borrow their youthful ornaments even from the dead—and to such a horrid extreme has fashion encouraged this unnatural propensity, that even the carcase of the soldier, who has fallen in a foreign land, and who,

“—————leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Looks proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame,”

has not been respected!

One would think that the ribands and honours on his breast, flapping in the wind, would have scared even the vulture from such prey; but no! the orders which the London dentist has received must, he pleads, be punctually executed; and it is a revolting fact, but too well known to “the trade,” that many, and many, and many a set of teeth which bit the dust of Waterloo, by an untimely resurrection, appeared again on earth, smiling lasciviously at Almack’s ball! So much for what is termed fashion.

After rambling about the churchyard for some minutes, occasionally spelling at an inscription, and sometimes looking at (not picking) a sepulchral flower, I walked to the church-door, and turning round its old-fashioned key, which ever since I had received it had been dangling in my hand, the lock started back, and then, as if I had said “Open Sesame!” the door opened.

On looking before me, my first impression was that my head was swimming! for the old gallery, hanging like the gardens of Babylon, seemed to be writhing; the four-and-twenty pews were leaning sideways; the aisle, or approach to the altar, covered with heaps of rubbish, was an undulating line, and an immense sepulchral flag-stone had actually been lifted up at one side, as if the corpse, finding the church deserted, had resolutely burst from his grave, and had wrenched himself once again into daylight. The pulpit was out of its perpendicular; some pictures, loosely hanging against the wall, had turned away their faces; and a couple of planks were resting diagonally against the altar, as if they had fallen from the roof. I really rubbed my eyes, fancying that they were disordered; however, the confusion I witnessed was real, and as nearly as possible as I have described it. Still, however, there was no dampness in the church, and it was, I thought, a remarkable proof of the dryness of the light mountain air of Langen-Schwalbach, that the sepulchral wreaths of artificial flowers which were hanging around on the walls were as starched and stiff as on the day they were placed there.

A piece of dingy black cloth, with narrow white fringe, was the only ornament to the pulpit, from which both book and minister had so long departed. The thing was altogether on the totter; yet when I reflected what little harm it had done in the world, and how much good, I could not help acknowledging that respect was justly due to its old age, and that, even by the stranger, it ought to be regarded with sentiments of veneration. In gazing at monuments of antiquity, one of the most natural pleasures which the mind enjoys is by them fancifully transported to the scenes which they so clearly commemorate. The Roman amphitheatre becomes filled with gladiators and spectators;—the streets of Pompeii are seen again thronged with people;—the Grecian temple is ornamented with the votive offerings of heroes and of senators;—even the putrid marsh of Marathon teems with noble recollections;—while at home, on the battlements of our old English castles, we easily figure to ourselves barons proud of their deeds, and vassals in armour faithfully devoted to their service: in short, while beholding such scenes, the heart glows, until, by its feverish heat, feelings are produced to which no one can be completely insensible: however, when we awaken from this delightful dream, it is difficult, indeed impossible, to drive away the painful moral which, sooner or later in the day, proves to us much too clearly, that these ruins have outlived, and in fact commemorate, the errors, the passions, and the prejudices, which caused them to be built.

But after looking up at the plain, unassuming pulpit of an old Lutheran church, one feels, long after one has left it, that all that has proceeded from its simple desk has been to promulgate peace, good-will, and happiness among mankind—and though, in its old age, it be now deserted, yet no one can deny that the seeds which in various directions it has scattered before the wind are not only vigorously flourishing in the little valley in which it stands, but must continue there and elsewhere to produce effects, which time itself can scarcely annihilate.

Turning towards the altar, I was looking at pictures of the twelve apostles, who, like sentinels at their posts, were in various attitudes surrounding it, when à propos to nothing, the great clock in the belfry struck four, and so little did I expect to hear any noise at all, that I could not help starting at being thus suddenly reminded, that the watch was still ticking in the fob of the dead soldier—in short, that that clock was still faithfully pointing out the progress of time, though the church to which it belonged had already, practically speaking, terminated its existence! Never did I before listen to four vibrations of an old church clock with more reverential attention: however, at each stroke involuntarily looking upwards, I did not altogether enjoy the sight of some loose rafters which were hanging over my head. I therefore very quietly moved onwards, yet, passing a small door, I could not resist clambering up an old well staircase which led to the belfry; not, however, until I had calculated that, as the building could bear the bells, my weight was not likely to turn the scale. I did not, however, feel disposed to reach the bells, but managed, through a rent in the wall, to look down on the roof, and such a scene of devastation it would be difficult to describe. The half-mouldered slates had not only been ripped away by the wind in every direction, but the remainder appeared as if they were just ready to follow in the flight. The roof was bending in, and altogether it looked so completely on the totter, that the slightest additional weight would have brought every thing to the ground. After descending, I went once more round the church, opened some of the old latticed pews—peeped into the marble font, which was half-filled with decayed mortar—took up a bird’s nest that had fallen into the chancel from the roof, and strolling towards the altar, I found there a small board covered with white pasteboard, and ornamented with a garland of roses. On this simple tablet were inscribed, in black letters, the names of the little band of Langen-Schwalbachians who had been present in the great campaign of 1815; and in case the reader should like to know not only who were the heroes of so remote a valley, but also what sort of names they possessed, I offer him a copy of the muster-roll of those thus distinguished for having served their native country, which the German language emphatically calls “Vaterland.”—

Dem. Verdientfeer
Conrad Blies
Adam Buslach
Adam Klenig
Christop Lindle
Ludwig Liedebach
Ludwig Diefenbach
Martin Eschenever
Philipp Hoenig
Eberhard Rucker
Casper Schenk
Philipp Singhoff
Eberhard Hofman
Wilhelm Koch
Philipp Kraus
Johannes Sartor
Ferdinand Wensel.

Having carefully locked up the old church with all the relics it contained, descending the steps of the eminence on which it stood, I once more found myself in the street among fellow-creatures.

The new Protestant church, which is very shortly to be built, and to which the bells of this old one, if possible, are to be removed, will be in the centre of the town, but this site, though more convenient, will not, I think, be so picturesque as that of the old building, which, with the Catholic Church at the other extremity of the town, seem to be the alpha and omega—the beginning and the end of Langen-Schwalbach. From the surrounding hills, as the eye glances from the one of these old buildings to the other, they appear to be the good Genii of the town—two guardian angels to watch over the welfare of its people here and hereafter.

[THE JEWISH SYNAGOGUE.]

The low part of Langen-Schwalbach, where the Jews live, is the most ancient portion of the town, the houses they inhabit being just above and below the great original brunnen or fountain, which, as I have stated, was celebrated for its medicinal properties even in the time of the Romans. This immense spring, which rises within a foot and a half of the surface of the ground (being then carried away by a subterranean drain), is two or three times as large as the Stahl brunnen, the Wein brunnen, or the fashionable Pauline. It contains very little iron, being principally sulphureous. From the violence with which it rises from the rock, the water is apparently constantly boiling, and such a suffocating gas arises from it, that, as at the Grotto del Cane, at Naples, one single inhalation would be nearly sufficient to deprive a person of his senses. Besides being strongly impregnated with this gas, it has also such an unearthly taste, that one almost fancies it must flow direct from the cellar of his Satanic majesty. Still, however, the Jews constantly drink, cook, and even wash with this water; however, being below the surface, it is necessary for them to stoop into the suffocating vapour whenever they fill their pitchers; and as one sees Jewess after Jewess dipping her dark greasy head into this infernal caldron, holding her breath, and then suddenly raising her head, with a momentary paleness and an aspiration which sufficiently explain her sensations, one feels anything but sympathy for a being who can voluntarily flutter in such a fetid climate.

With sentiments, I fear, not very liberal, I stood for many minutes looking at those who came to fill their pitchers; at last, rather a better feeling shooting across me, I resolved once more to make a trial of water on which so many of my fellow-creatures seemed to subsist, and I accordingly dipped my hand into a large washing-tub which an old Jewess had half suffocated herself in filling with her pitcher. The woman offered me no sign or word of disrespect; but I saw her cast a withering look at the water, as if a cup of poison had been poured into it: she continued, however, very quietly to fill her other tubs; but after I had walked away, turning suddenly round for a moment, I saw her upset the tub from which I had drunk, her lips muttering at the same time some short observation to a sister Jewess standing beside her.

I could not, however, help acknowledging that her prejudice was not more illiberal, and certainly far more excusable, than my own; and as I had determined to attend that evening the Jewish synagogue, in the meanwhile I did what I could to bring my mind to a proper state of feeling towards a people whose form of worship I was desirous seriously to witness.

Never had I before chanced to enter a synagogue; yet, when I had reflected on the singular history of the Jews, I had often concluded that there must be some strange, unaccountable attraction, something inexplicably mysterious in their forms of worship, which could have induced them to brave the persecutions that in all ages, and in so many countries, had traced out their history in letters of blood.

Full of curiosity, I had therefore inquired at what hour on Friday their church would assemble, and being told that they would meet “as soon as the stars were visible,” I walked towards the synagogue, a few minutes after sunset, and in every Jewish house I observed, as I passed it, seven candles burning in a circle. The house of worship was a small oblong hovel, not unlike a barn. The door was open, but no human being appeared within, excepting a man over whose shoulders there was thrown a piece of common brown sackcloth. This personage, who turned out to be the priest, stood before a sort of altar; and, just as careless of it as of us, he stood bowing to it incessantly. There being not much to see in these vibrations, I walked away, and returning in about five minutes, I found the congregation had suddenly assembled, and the service begun.

In the course of my life, like most people, I have chanced to witness a great variety of forms of worship, several of which it would not be very easy to describe. For instance, it would be difficult, or rather impossible, to delineate, by words, high mass, as performed in the great church of St. Peter, at Rome. One might, indeed, fully describe any part of it, but the silence of one moment, the burst of music at another, the immensity of the building, and the assembled congregation, produce altogether sensations on the eye and ear which the goose-quill has not power to impart. Again, to the simple homage which a Peruvian Indian pays to the sun no man could do justice; one might describe his attitude as he prostrates himself before what he conceives to be the burning ruler of the universe, but the fleeting expressions of his supplicating countenance, as it trembles—hopes—flushes—and then, with eyes dazzled to dimness, trembles again,—may be witnessed, but cannot be described. One of the wildest forms of worship I ever beheld was, perhaps, the dance of the Dervishes, at Athens; for there is a sort of enthusiasm in the convulsions into which these twelve men throw themselves, which has a most indescribable effect on those who witness it: it is madness,—yet it is a tempest of the mind within the range of which no man’s senses can live unruffled;—the strongest judgment bends before the gale, and insensibly are the feelings led astray by conduct, actions, words, grimaces, and contortions, which, taken altogether, are indescribable.

But although these and many other forms of worship may be original pictures which cannot be copied, yet I think a child of ten years of age, if he could only hold a pen, might give a reader as good a notion of the Langen-Schwalbach synagogue, as if he had been there himself a thousand times; for all the poor child would have to do would be to beg him imagine a small dirty barn, swarming with fleas, filled with dirty-looking men in dirty dresses, with old hats on their heads, spitting—hallooing—reading—bowing—hallooing louder than ever—scratching themselves as they leave the synagogue,—and then calmly walking home to their seven candles!

To any serious, reflecting mind, all religions, to a certain point, are worthy of respect. It is true, all cannot be right, yet the errors are those which fellow-creatures need not dispute among each other; he who has the happiness to go right has no just cause to be offended with those who unfortunately have mistaken their course; and however men’s political opinions may radiate from each other, yet their zeal for religion is at least one tie which ought to connect them together. However, the Jews of Langen-Schwalbach, so far as a spectator can judge by their behaviour, do not even pretend to be zealous in their cause. There is no pretence of feeling, not attempt either at humbug or effect. They perform their service as if, having made a regular bargain to receive certain blessings for hallooing a certain time, they conceived that all they had to do was scrupulously to perform their part of the contract, that there was no occasion to exceed their agreement, or give more than was absolutely required by the bond.

As I stood just within the door of the synagogue, listening to their rude, uncouth, noisy worship, almost every eye was turned upon me, and the expression of many of the countenances was so ill-favoured, that I very soon left them, though I had even then a long way to walk before I ceased to hear the strange wild hullabulloo they were making.

[THE HARVEST.]

All this day I have been strolling about the fields, watching the getting in of the harvest. The crops of oats, rye, and wheat (principally bearded) are much heavier than any one would expect from such light and apparently poor land; but the heavy dews which characterize the summer climate of this high country impart a nourishment which, in richer lands, often lies dormant from drought. In Nassau, the corn is cut principally by women, who use a sickle so very small and light, that it seems but little labour to wield it. They begin early in the morning, and with short intervals of rest continue till eleven o'clock, when the various village bells suddenly strike up a merry peal, which is a signal to the labourers to come home to their dinners. It is a very interesting scene to observe, over the undulating surface of the whole country, groups of peasants, brothers, sisters, parents, &c., all bending to their sickles—to see children playing round infants lying fast asleep on blue smock-frocks placed under the shade of the corn sheaves. It is pleasing to remark the rapid progress which the several parties are making; how each little family, attacking its own patch or property, works its way into the standing corn, leaving the crop prostrate behind them; and then, in the middle of this simple, rural, busy scene, it is delightful indeed to hear from the belfry of their much-revered churches a peal of cheerful notes, which peacefully sound “lullaby” to them all. In a very few seconds the square fields and little oblong plots are deserted, and then the various roads and paths of the country suddenly burst in lines upon the attention, each being delineated by a string of peasants, who are straggling one behind the other, until paths in all directions are seen converging towards the parental village churches, which seem to be attracting them all.

As soon as each field of corn is cut, it is bound into sheaves, about the size they are in England: seven of these are then made to lean towards each other, and upon them all is placed a large sheaf reversed, the ears of which hanging downwards form a sort of thatch, which keeps this little stack dry until its owner has time to carry it to his home. It generally remains many days in this state, and after the harvest has been all cut, the country covered with these stacks resembles a vast encampment.

The carts and waggons used for carrying the corn are exceedingly well adapted to the country. Their particular characteristic is excessive lightness, and, indeed, were they heavy, it would be quite impossible for any cattle to draw them up and down the hills. Occasionally they are drawn by horses—often by small active oxen; but cows more generally perform this duty, and with quite as much patience as their mistresses, at the same moment, are labouring before them at the sickle. The yoke, or beam, by which these cows are connected, is placed immediately behind their horns; a little leathern pillow is then laid upon their brow, over which passes a strap that firmly lashes their heads to the beam, and it is, therefore, against such soft cushions that the animals push to advance: and thus linked together for life, by this sort of Siamese band, it is curious to observe them eating together, then by agreement raising their heads to swallow, then again standing motionless chewing the cud, which is seen passing and repassing from the stomach to the mouth.

At first, when, standing near them, I smelt from their breath the sweet fresh milk, it seemed hard that they should thus be, as it were, domestic candles, lighted at both ends: however, verily do I believe that all animals prefer exercise, or even hard work, to any sort of confinement, and if so, they are certainly happier than our stall-fed cows, many of which, in certain parts of Britain, may be seen with their heads fixed economically for months between two vertical beams of wood. The Nassau cows certainly do not seem to suffer while working in their light carts; as soon as their mistress advances, they follow her, and if she turns and whips them, then they seem to hurry after her more eagerly than ever.

It is true, hard labour has the effect of impoverishing their milk, and the calf at home is consequently (so far as it is concerned) a loser by the bargain: however, there is no child in the peasant’s family who has not had cause to make the same complaint; and, therefore, so long as the labourer’s wife carries her infant to the harvest, the milch cow may very fairly be required to draw to the hovel what has been cut by her hands.

Nothing can be better adapted to the features of the country, nothing can better accord with the feeble resources of its inhabitants, than the equipment of these economical waggons and carts: the cows and oxen can ascend any of the hills, or descend into any of the valleys; they can, without slipping, go sideways along the face of the hills, and in crossing the green, swampy, grassy-ravines, I particularly remarked the advantage of the light waggon drawn by animals with cloven feet; for had one of our heavy teams attempted the passage, like a set of flies walking across a plate of treacle, they would soon have become unable to extricate even themselves. But in making the comparison between the horse and the cow (as far as regards Nassau husbandry), I may further observe, that the former has a very expensive appetite, and wears very expensive shoes; as soon as he becomes lame he is useless, and as soon as he is dead he is carrion. Now a placid, patient Langen-Schwalbach cow, in the bloom of her youth, costs only two or three pounds; she requires neither corn nor shoeing: the leaves of the forest, drawn by herself to the village, form her bed, which in due time she carries out to the field as manure: there is nothing a light cart can carry which she is not ready to fetch, and from her work she cheerfully returns to her home to give milk, cream, butter and cheese to the establishment: at her death she is still worth eleven kreuzers a pound as beef; and when her flesh has disappeared, her bones, after being ground at the mill, once again appear upon her master’s fields, to cheer, manure, and enrich them.

As, quite in love with cows, I was returning from the harvest, I met the Nassau letter-cart, one of the cheapest carriages for its purpose that can well be conceived. It consists of a pair of high wheels connected by a short axle, upon which are riveted a few boards framed together in the form of a small shallow box; in this little coffin the letter-bag is buried, and upon it, like a monument, sits a light boy dressed in the uniform of a Nassau postillion, who with a trumpet in one hand, a long whip in the other, and the reins sporting loose under his feet, starts as if he deliberately meant mischief, intending to get well over his ground; and there being scarcely any weight to carry, the horse really might proceed as a mail-coach horse ought to go; but that horrible Punch and Judy trumpet upsets the whole arrangement, for as the thing is very heavy, the child soon takes two hands to it instead of one, when down goes the whip, and from that moment the picture, which promised to be a good one, is spoiled.

The letter-bag crawls, like a reptile, along the road; while the boy, amusing himself with his plaything, reminds one of those “nursery rhymes” which say,

“And with rings on his fingers, and bells on his toes,
We shall have music wherever he goes.”

It is quite provoking to see a government carriage in its theory so simply imagined, and so cleverly adapted to its purpose, thus completely ruined in its practice. Music may be, and indeed is, very delightful in its way; but a tune is one thing—speed another; and it always seems to me a pity that the Duke of Nassau should allow these two substantives to be so completely confounded in his dominions.

How admirably does the long tin horn of the guard of one of our mail-coaches perform its blunt duty!—a single blast is sufficient to remove the obstruction of an old gentleman in his gig—two are generally enough for a heavy cart—three for a waggon—and half-a-dozen slowly and sternly applied, are always sufficient to awaken the snoring keeper of a turnpike-gate—in short, to

“Break his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark! hark! the horrid sound
Has raised up his head, as awaked from the dead,
And amazed he stares around!”

The gala turn-out of our mail-coaches on the King’s birth-day, I always think must strike foreigners more than anything else in our country with the sterling solid integrity of the English character. To see so many well-bred horses in such magnificent condition—so many well-built carriages—so many excellent drivers, and such a corps of steady, quiet, resolute-looking men as guards, each wearing, as well as every coachman, the King’s own livery—all this must silently point out, even to our most jealous enemies, not only the wealth of the country, but the firm basis on which it stands; in short, it must prove to them most undeniably, that there is no one thing in England which, throughout the land, is treated with so much universal attention and respect, as the honest, speedy, and safe delivery of the letters and commercial correspondence of the country. Nevertheless, if our English coachmen were to be allowed, instead of attending to their horses, to play on trumpets as they proceeded, we should, as in the Duchy of Nassau, soon pay very dearly for their music.

[THE SUNSET.]

It had been hot all day—the roads had been dusty—the ground, as one trod upon it, had felt warm—the air was motionless—animal as well as vegetable life appeared weak and exhausted—Nature herself seemed parched and thirsty—the people on the promenade, as it got hotter and hotter, had walked slower and slower, until they were now crawling along as unwillingly as if they had been marching to their graves. The world, as if from apathy, was coming to a stand still—Langen-Schwalbach itself appeared to be fainting away, when the evening sun, having rested for a moment on the western height, gradually vanished from our sight.

His red tyrannical rays had hardly left our pale abject faces, when all people suddenly revived; like a herd of fawning courtiers who had been kept trembling before their king, they felt that, left to themselves, they could now breathe, and think, and stamp their feet. Parasols, one after another, were shut up—the pedestrians on the promenade freshened their pace—even fat patients, who had long been at anchor on the benches, began to show symptoms of getting under weigh—every leaf seemed suddenly to be enjoying the cool gentle breeze which was now felt stealing up the valley; until, in a very few minutes, everything in Nature was restored to life and enjoyment.

It was the hour for returning to my “hof,” but the air as it blew into my window was so delightfully refreshing, and so irresistibly inviting, that I and my broad-brimmed hat went out tête-à-tête to enjoy it. As we passed the red pond of iron water, opposite to the great “Indian Hof,” which comes from the strong Stahl brunnen, having nothing to do, I lingered for some time watching the horses that were brought there. After having toiled through the excessive heat of the day, any water would have been agreeable to them; but the nice, cool, strengthening, effervescing mixture into which they were now led, seemed to be so exceedingly delightful, that they were scarcely up to their knees before they made a strong attempt to drink: but the rule being that they should first half walk and half swim two or three times round the pond, this cleansing or ablution was no sooner over—the reins were no sooner loosened—when down went their heads into the red cooling pool; and one had then only to look at the horses’ eyes to appreciate their enjoyment. With the whole of their mouths and nostrils immersed, they seemed as if they fancied they could drink the pond dry; however, the greedy force with which they held their heads down gradually relaxed, until, at last, up they were raised, with an aspiration which seemed to say, “We can hold no more!” In about ten seconds, however, their noses again dropped to the surface, but only to play with an element which seemed now to be useless—so completely had one single draught altered its current value! As I stood at the edge of this pond, leaning over the rail, mentally participating with the horses in the luxury they were enjoying, a violent shower of rain came on; yet, before I had hurried fifty yards for an umbrella, it had ceased. These little showers are exceedingly common amongst the hills of Nassau in the evenings of very hot days. From the power of the sun, the valleys during the day are filled brimful with a steam, or exhalation, which no sooner loses its parent, the sun, than the cold condenses it; and then, like the tear on the cheek of a child that has suddenly missed its mother, down it falls in heavy drops, and the next instant—smiles again.

As the air was very agreeable, I wandered up the hilly road which leads to Bad-Ems; and then, strolling into a field of corn, which had been just cut, I continued to climb the mountain, until, turning round, I found, as I expected, that I had attained just the sort of view I wanted; but it would be impossible to describe to the reader the freshness of the scene. Beneath was the long scrambling village of the Langen-Schwalbach, the slates of which, absolutely blooming from the shower they had just received, looked so very clean and fresh, that for some time my eyes quite enjoyed rambling from one roof to the next, and then glancing from one extremity of the town to the other;—they had been looking at hot dazzling objects all day—I thought I never should be able to raise them from the cool blue wet slates. However, as the light rapidly faded, the landscape itself soon became equally refreshing, for the dry parched corn-fields assumed a richer hue, the green crops seemed bending under dew, and the whole picture, hills, town, and all, appeared so newly painted, that the colours from Nature’s brush were too fresh to be dry. All of a sudden, majestically rolling up the valley, was seen a misty vapour, which, at last, reaching the houses, rolled from roof to roof, until it hovered over, or rather rested upon the whole town, and this was no sooner the case than the slates seemed all to have vanished!

In vain I looked for them, for the cloud exactly matching them in colour had so completely disguised them, that they formed nothing now but the base or foundation of the misty fabric which rested upon them. Instead of a blue town, Langen-Schwalbach now appeared to be a white one; for, the roofs no longer attracting attention, the shining walls burst into notice, and a serpentine line of glistening patches, nearly resembling a ridge of snow, clearly marked out the shape and limits of the town; but as, in this elevated country, there is little or no twilight, the features of the picture again rapidly faded, until even this white line was hardly to be seen; corn-fields could now scarcely be distinguished from green crops—all became dark—and the large forest on the south hills, as well as the small woods which are scattered on the heights, had so completely lost their colour, that they appeared to be immense black pits or holes. In a short time every thing beneath me was lost; and sitting on the ground, leaning against seven sheaves of corn piled up together, I was enjoying the sublime serenity, the mysterious uncertainty of the scene before me, when another very beautiful change took place!

I believe I have already told the reader that, beside myself, there were about 1200 strangers in the little village of Langen-Schwalbach. Of course every hof was fully inhabited, and, as soon as darkness prevailed, the effect produced by each house being suddenly and almost simultaneously lighted up, was really quite romantic. In every direction, sometimes at the top of one hof, then at the bottom of another, lights burst into existence—the eye attracted, eagerly flew from one to another, until, from the number which burst into life, it became quite impossible to attend to each. The bottom of the valley, like the dancing of fire-flies, was sparkling in the most irregular succession; till, in a short time, this fantastic confusion vanished, and every room (there being no shutters) having its light, Langen-Schwalbach was once again restored to view—each house, and every story of each house, being now clearly defined by a regular and very pleasing illumination; and while, seated in utter darkness, I gazed at the gay sparkling scene before me, I could not help feeling that, of all the beautiful contrasts in Nature, there can be no one more vivid than the sudden change between darkness and light. How weary we should be of eternal sunshine,—how gloomy would it be to grope through one’s life in utter darkness, and yet what loveliness do each of these, by contrast, impart to the other! On the heights above the village, how magnificent was the darkness after a hot sun-shining day; and then, again, how lovely was the twinkling even of tallow-candles, when they suddenly burst upon this darkness! Yet it is with these two ingredients that Nature works up all her pictures; and, as Paganini’s tunes all come out of two strings of cat-gut, and two of the entrails of a kitten, so do all the varieties which please our eyes proceed from a mixture in different proportions of light and shade; and, indeed, in the moral world, it is the chiaro-oscuro, the brightness and darkness of which alone form the happiness of our existence. What would prosperity be, if there was no such sorrow as adversity? what would health be if sickness did not exist? and what would be the smile of an approving conscience if there was not the torment of repentance writhing under guilt? But I will persecute the reader no longer with the reflections which occurred to me, as I sat in a wheat-field, gazing on the lights of Langen-Schwalbach. Good or bad, they managed to please me; however, after remaining in darkness, till it became much colder than was agreeable, I wandered back to my hof, entered my dormitory, and my head having there found its pillow, as I extinguished my candle, I mumbled to myself—“There goes one of the tallow stars of Langen-Schwalbach!—Sic transit gloria mundi!”

I was lying prostrate, still awake—and (there being no shutters to the window at the foot of the bed) I was looking at some oddly-shaped, tall, acute-angled, slated roofs, glistening in the light of the round full moon, which was hanging immediately above them. The scene was delightfully silent and serene. Occasionally I faintly heard a distant footstep approaching, until treading heavily under the window, its sound gradually diminished, till all again was silent. Sometimes a cloud passing slowly across the moon would veil the roofs in darkness; and then, again, they would suddenly burst upon the eye, in silvery light, shining brighter than ever. As somewhat fatigued I lay half enjoying this scene, and half dozing, I suddenly heard, apparently close to me, the scream of a woman, which really quite electrified me!

On listening it was repeated, when, jumping out of bed and opening the door, I heard it again proceeding from a room at the distant end of the passage; and such was the violence of its tone, that my impression was—“the lady’s room is on fire!”

There is something in the piercing shriek of a woman in distress which produces an irresistible effect on the featherless biped, called man; and, in rushing to her assistance, he performs no duty—he exercises no virtue—but merely obeys an instinctive impulse which has been benevolently imparted to him—not for his own good, but for the safety and protection of a weaker and a better sex.

But although this feeling exists so powerfully chez nous, yet it has not by nature been imparted to common-place garments, such as coats, black figured silk waistcoats, rusty knee-breeches, nor even to easy shoes, blue worsted stockings, or such like; and, therefore, while, by an irresistible attraction which I could not possibly counteract, obeying the mysterious impulse of my nature, I rushed along the passage, these base, unchivalric garments remained coldly dangling over the back of a chair: in short, I followed the laws of my nature—they, theirs.

With some difficulty, having succeeded in bursting open the door just as a fifth shriek was repeated, I rushed in, and there, sitting up in her bed—her soft arms most anxiously extended towards me—her countenance expressing an agony of fear—sat a young lady, by no means ill-favoured, and aged (as near as I could hastily calculate) about twenty-one!

Almost in hysterics, she began, in German, to tell a long incoherent story; and though, with calm, natural dignity, I did what I could to quiet her, the tears rushed into her eyes—she then almost in convulsions began, with her hands under the bed-clothes, to scratch her knees, then shrieked again; and I do confess that I was altogether at a loss to conceive what in the sacred name of virtue was the matter with the young lady, when, by her repeating several times the word “Ratten! Ratten!!” I at once comprehended that there were (or that the amiable young person fancied that there were)—rats in her bed!

The dog Billy, as well as many puppies of less name, would instantly, perhaps, have commenced a vigorous attack; rats, however, are reptiles I am not in the habit either of hunting or destroying.

The young lady’s aunt, an elderly personage, now appeared at the door, in her night-clothes, as yellow and as sallow as if she had just risen from the grave; peeping over her shoulder, stood our landlady’s blooming daughter in her bed-gown—Leonhard, the son cum multis aliis. What they could all have thought of the scene—what they could have thought of my strange, gaunt, unadorned appearance—what they could have thought of the niece’s screams—and what they would have thought had I deigned to tell them I had come to her bedside merely to catch rats—it was out of my power to divine: however, the fact was, I cared not a straw what they thought; but, seeing that my presence was not requisite, I gravely left the poor innocent sufferer to tell her own story. “Ratten! Ratten!!” was its theme; and, long before her fears subsided, my mind, as well as its body, were placidly intranced in sleep.

[THE CROSS OF ST. JOHN OF JERUSALEM.]