MAGNIFICENCE.--AT CHURCH.--THE LAST HEADSMAN.
"Herrlichkeit!" Magnificence! What a name! Ye Paradise-rows, ye
Mount-pleasants, what is your pride of appellation to this? In all
Belgravia there is not a terrace, place, or square that can match it.
Fancy the question, "Where do you reside?"
"In Magnificence--number forty."
Yet it is a fact, Magnificence is a street in Hamburg. I have lived in
Magnificence.
The Herrlichkeit, like many other places of imposing title, loses
considerably upon a close acquaintance. You approach it from the
waterside through a rugged way, blessed with the euphonious appellation
of Stuben Huck; and having climbed over two pebbly bridges--looking down
as you do so at the busy scene in the docks below, where crowds of canal
craft lie packed and jumbled together--you turn a little to the left hand
and behold--Magnificence!
Magnificence has no footpath, but it is not singular in that respect. It
is of rather less than the average width of the streets in Hamburg--and
they are all narrow--and the houses are lofty. It is paved with small
pebbles, and has a gutter running down the centre; and as a short flight
of stone steps forms the approach to the chief entrance of each house,
the available roadway is small indeed. But they are grand houses in
Magnificence, at least they have been, and still bear visible signs of
their former character.
Let us enter one house; it will serve as a type of many houses in
Hamburg. Having mounted the stone steps, we stand before a half-glazed
folding-door, and seeing a small brass lever before us, we test its
power, and find the door yield to the pressure. But we have set a
clamorous bell ringing, like that of a suburban huxter, for this is the
Hamburger's substitute for a knocker. We enter a large stone-paved hall,
lighted from the back, where a glazed balcony overlooks the teeming
canal. You wish to wipe your shoes. Well! do you see this pattern of a
small area-railing cut in wood? That is our scraper and door-mat--all in
one.
To our right is a massive oaken staircase. We ascend in gloom, for the
staircase being built in the middle of the house, only a few straggling
rays of light can reach it, and whence they proceed is a mystery. Every
few steps we mount we are upon the point of stumbling into the door of
some cupboard or apartment; they are in all sorts of places. At length
we reach a broad landing paved with stone. What a complication of doors
and passages, which the vague light tends to make more obscure! Here are
huge presses, lumbering oaken cabinets, jammed into corners. We ascend a
second flight and arrive at another extensive landing. Here are two
suites of apartments, besides odd little cribs in the corners which are
not occupied by other presses. There are still two floors above, but as
they are both contained in the huge gable roof of the house, they are
more useful as store-rooms than as habitable apartments. The quantity of
wood we see about us is frightful when associated with the idea of fire.
We will enter the suite on the right hand; the apartments are light and
agreeable, and overlook the canal, and, when the tide is up, and the
canal full, and the grassy bleaching ground on the opposite bank is
dotted with white linen, it is a pleasant scene indeed; but when the tide
is out--ugh! the River Thames at low water is a paradise to it. The
tidal changes are carefully watched, and it is not an unusual occurrence
to hear the solemn gun booming through the air as a warning to the
inhabitants to block and barricade their cellars and kitchens against the
rush of waters.
* * * * *
It is Sunday morning, and the most beautiful melody of bells I ever heard
is toning through the air. They are the bells of S. Michael's church,
and I am told that the musician plays them by a set of pedal keys, and
works himself into a mighty heat and flurry in the operation. But we
cannot think of the wild manner and mad motions of the player in
connection with those beautiful sounds, so clear and melodious; that half
plaintive music so sweetly measured. They ring thus every morning,
commencing at a quarter to six, and play till the hour strikes.
We descend, and make our way through irregular streets and dingy canals
till we reach the church of St. Jacobi. It stands in an open space, is
neither railed in, nor has it a graveyard attached to it. It is of
stone, and has an immense gable roof, slated, and studded with eaved
windows. A shortish square basement is at one end, from which springs a
tall octangular steeple. Within all is quiet and decorous. The church
is paved with stone, and there is a double row of pews down the centre.
But is this a Protestant Church? Most assuredly; Lutheran. You are
astonished at the crosses, the images, the altar? True! there is
something Romish in the whole arrangement, but it is Protestant for all
that. You cannot help feeling vexed at the pertinacity with which the
Germans whitewash everything, nor do the pale lavender-coloured curtains
of the pulpit appear in keeping with the edifice. Everything is
scrupulously clean.
We are too late to hear the congregational singing, the devotional union
of voices, for as we enter the minister ascends into the pulpit in his
black velvet skull-cap, and bristling white frill. Unless you are a good
German scholar you will fail to understand the discourse so earnestly, so
emphatically delivered. The echo of the building, and the high character
of the composition, will baffle and mislead you; while, at the same time,
the incessant tingling of the little silver bells suspended from the
corners of scarlet velvet bags, which are handed along the pews (at the
end of a stick), during the whole of the sermon, will distract and
irritate you. It is thus they collect alms for the poor. Yet even to
one ignorant of the language, there is a fullness and vigour in the style
and manner of delivery that would almost persuade you that you had
understood, and felt convinced of the truth of what you had heard. As we
quit the church we purchase at the door a printed copy of the sermon from
a poor widow woman, who is there to sell them at a penny each.
We will loiter home to dinner. The streets are thronged with people,
with cheerful, contented faces, and in holiday attire. Who are these
grave gentlemen? This little troop in sable trappings; buskins, cloaks,
silken hose, hats and feathers, and shoes with large rosettes--all black
and sombre, like so many middle aged Hamlets? Can they be masqueraders
on the Sabbath? Possibly some of the senators in their official costume?
No! Oh, human vanity! A passer-by informs us that they are only
undertakers' men--paid mourners. They are to swell the funeral
procession, and are the mere mimics of woe. The undertakers of Hamburg
vie with each other in the dressing of their men, and indeed, one
indispensable part of their "stock-in-trade" are some half-dozen
dress-suits of black, it matters not of what age or country, the stranger
the better, so that the "effect" be good.
* * * * *
We will take a stroll about the beautiful Alster this Sunday afternoon.
It is late autumn, and the early budding trees have already shed their
leaves. But rich, floating masses of foliage are still there--the
deepening hues of autumn, and here and there broad patches of bright
summer green. There are two Alsters, the "inner" and "outer," each of
them a broad expanse of water; they are connected by flood-gates,
surrounded by verdure, and studded with pleasure-boats; while on the city
side several elegant pavilions hang on the water's edge, where coffee and
beverages of every kind can be obtained, and the seldom omitted and
never-to-be-forgotten music of the Germans may be heard thrilling in the
evening air.
It is already growing dusk; let us enter the _Alster Halle_. This is the
most important of these pavilions. It is not large; there is but the
ground-floor. It has much the appearance of a French _cafe_, the whole
space being filled with small, round, white marble tables, and
innumerable chairs. Here all the lighter articles of refreshment are to
be obtained; tea, coffee, wines, spirits and pastry in numberless shapes.
There is an inner room where the more quietly disposed can read his
newspaper in comparative silence; here are German, Danish, French, and
English journals, and a little sprinkling of literary periodicals.
Another room is set apart for billiards, where silent, absorbed
individuals may be seen playing eternally at poule. In the evening a
little band of skilled musicians, in the pay of the proprietor, perform
choice morsels of beautiful music, and all this can be enjoyed for the
price of a cup of coffee--twopence!
THE LAST HEADSMAN.
Ten years ago the ancient city of Hamburg was awakened into terror by the
commission of a fearful murder. The cry of "Fire!" arose in the night;
the _nachtwachter_ (watchman) gave the alarm; and the few means at
command were resorted to with an energy and goodwill that sufficed soon
to extinguish the flames. It was, however, discovered that the fire had
not done the work it had been kindled for; it would not hide murder.
Among the smouldering embers in the _kellar_ or underground kitchen,
where the fire had originated, was discovered the charred body of a poor
old woman, whose recent wounds were too certain evidences of a violent
death. It was also ascertained that a petty robbery of some few dollars
had been committed, and the utmost vigilance was called into exercise to
discover the perpetrator.
All surmises were in vain, till suspicion fell upon the watchman who had
first given the alarm; and the first evidence of the track of guilt being
thus fallen upon, it was not difficult to trace it to its source.
Numerous little scraps of evidence came out, one upon another, till the
whole diabolical plot was stripped of its mystery, and the guilt of the
_wachter_ clearly proved. He was convicted of the crime imputed to him,
and condemned to death by the Senate. But on receiving sentence, the
condemned man assumed a tone totally unexpected of him, for he boldly
asserted that the punishment of death had fallen into disuse; that it was
no longer the law of Hamburg; and concluded by defying the Senators to
carry the sentence pronounced into execution.
It was indeed true that the ponderous weapon of the headsman had lain for
two-and-twenty years rusting in its scabbard; nor without reason. At
that period a criminal stood convicted and condemned to death. The law
gave little mercy in those days, and there was no hesitation in carrying
the sentence into effect. But an unexpected difficulty arose; the old
headsman was but lately dead, and his son, a fine stalwart young man,
was, from inexperience, considered unequal to the task. A crowd of eager
competitors proffered their services in this emergency, but the ancient
city of Hamburg, like some other ancient cities, was hampered with
antiquated usages. Its profits and other advantages were tied up into
little knots of monopoly, in various shapes of privileges and hereditary
rights. The young headsman claimed his office on the latter ground; to
the surprise of all, his mother, the wife of the old headsman, not merely
supported him in his claim, but persisted, with a spirit that might have
become a Roman matron but certainly no one else, that if her son were
incapable, she herself was responsible for the performance of her
husband's duty, and would execute it. The Senate was in consternation,
for this assertion of hereditary right was unanswerable; and while they
courteously declined the offer of the chivalrous mother, they felt
constrained to accept the services of her son.
The fatal morning came; the scaffold stood erected; and pressing closely
around the wooden barriers, stood the anxious crowd awaiting the
execution. The culprit knelt with head erect, his neck and shoulders
bared for the stroke, while the young headsman stood by his side armed
with the double-handed sword, the weapon of his office. At a sign given,
he swung the tremendous blade in the air, and aimed a fearful blow at the
neck of the condemned; but his skilless hand sloped the broad blade as it
fell, and it struck deeply into the victim's breast. Amid a cry of
terror he raised his sword again; again it whirled through the air, and
again it failed to do its deadly work. The miserable wretch still lived;
and a third stroke was necessary to complete the task so dreadfully
began. Who can wonder that that fearful weapon had for years long rested
from its service?
Influenced by this terrible scene, and, let us hope, as well by motives
of humanity as by the conviction of the utter uselessness of such a
spectacle as a moral lesson, the Senate of Hamburg had commuted the
punishment of death into that of a life imprisonment. Yet now they were
taunted with their unreadiness to shed blood, and dared to carry the law,
as it still stood upon the statute-book, into effect. For a while it
seemed that anger would govern the acts of the Senate, for every
preparation was made for the execution. The headsman, whose blundering
essay has been above related, was still living, but he had long filled
the humble office of a messenger, and made no claim to repeat his effort.
Among the many competitors who offered their services, a Dane was finally
selected, and the inhabitants of Hamburg, excited to the utmost degree by
the anticipation of the forthcoming spectacle, awaited the event with a
morbid and gloating curiosity. They were, however, disappointed;
humanity prevailed, and the guilty _wachter_ was conducted to a life
prison.
The Senate of Hamburg has not formally abolished the punishment of death;
but the last _hereditary_ headsman is now growing an old man, and the
first and only stroke of his weapon was dealt thirty-two years ago.