Whatever our political independence may be, we are slavish imitators of
Europe in every thing appertaining to society. We may boast of being
republicans—we may beard England and France, conquer the Mexicans and
annex Cuba, but we dare not get up a coat or a pantaloon, or a
morning-dress, or a _peignoir_ of a lady, without first waiting for the
fashion plates of Paris. What is taste but a sense of the fitness of
things—the intuition of propriety—and why should we not lay claim to
it as well as other nations. John Bull, in that respect, is a much more
remarkable man; not only is he stock-English at home, but an Englishman
wherever he goes—in Canton and St. Petersburgh, in Constantinople or
Paris—wherever he sojourns he founds, or assists in founding, an
English colony, governed by English laws, English fashions, English
tastes, and all the substantial customs of his foggy and smoky island.
Nothing tempts him to forego his Anglicism. He breakfasts on a steak in
India, as he does on Ludgate Hill, and has made the establishment of
butchers’ shops in the Asiatic possessions of England an important item
of legislation;—he has established coffee-houses in Paris, where you
get, _par excellence_, a _biftec à l’anglaise_—he has established
_Hotels d’Angleterre_ in every habitable town and village of Europe, and
he has colonized the world with English shoemakers, tailors, and other
artisans of every description. Let him go where he may, he prefers the
productions of his country to every other, and even deals in preference
with his countrymen, though he knows they cheat him. He would rather be
circumvented by his own countrymen than pay an additional frank to a
Frenchman.
Wherever half a dozen English families are congregated, there is a loyal
English association for the preservation of the purity of English
manners, English patriotism, and the holy and essential connection of
Church and State. As a matter of course, whenever they can afford to pay
for a preacher, they have their English chapel, and if a nobleman
happens to get among them, they have their English genealogies, their
court and their toadies. In former days they were at least obliged, when
traveling, to study French, or some other European language, but since
English is spoken all over the world, from the lady in the drawing-room
to the garçon of the hotel and the _café_, the incoherent monosyllables
of which English conversation is usually composed, will answer for an
overland journey to Calcutta. Even in this country the English remain
attached to their habits and customs, and to the fashions of their own
modern Babylon.
Alas! it is not so with us. We imitate the whole world; we are the
slaves of fashions set by other people, and yet, we are the only country
on earth which has a _written declaration_ of independence.
But the worst of it is, that in imitating Europe, we select generally
that which is least fit for our use, and omit those laudable customs and
manners which, being founded on the experience of centuries, give to the
old continent the only real advantage it has over us. We copy
aristocratic prudery and exclusiveness, and omit the graceful provenance
of the higher orders, wherever their rank or title is not drawn into
question, and the agreeable equality which is the essential charm of
society. We cannot unbend for a single moment—we carry our personal
dignity, our wealth, and our connections into the humblest walk of life,
and by that very means deprive ourselves of a thousand little enjoyments
which constitute the great aggregate of human happiness.
I will here allude only to one instance—the manner in which we spend
our summers. Our summers are, in general, hotter than those of Europe
and, in consequence, drive a much larger portion of the population into
the country and to the watering-places. The facilities of locomotion,
too, are very great, and traveling comparatively cheap; because we are
in a habit of doing it in caravans, whether it be by rail-roads[1] or in
floating palaces. How delightfully might we not spend the warm season,
and the delicious autumn which follows, if we only knew how!
In Europe there are two kinds of watering-places: those where baths are
taken or waters drunk for the use of health, and those which, being
delightfully situated, attract crowds of visiters merely for the purpose
of agreeable pastime. The waters of the Pyrenees, of the Tyrol, and some
of the _Brunnens_ of Germany, belong to the former class; but by far the
greatest number are properly comprised under the head of “Baths of
Luxury and Amusement.” And, indeed, it is a luxury to use such baths in
such places, and surrounded by such comforts! Among the model waters of
the world are those of Germany. They unite in themselves all the
advantages of the others, and surpass them in the profundity of thought
and research with which they are organized and embellished. There is a
high, lofty enthusiasm in that hardy race of Germans, which one would
not naturally seek behind those listless blue eyes, flaxen hair, drum
heads and quadrangular faces, which have won for them the characteristic
appellation of _têtes-carrées_; and yet how beautifully are their
classic lore, their wild romanticism, and their modern merriment,
illustrated at their _Brunnens_! They are complete little worlds in
themselves—miniature planets, scarcely perturbed by the revolutions of
other bodies. In a week you can pass through the whole of them, from
Hesse Homburg and Baden-Baden to Wiesbaden, Emms and Langenschalbach,
and yet each of these bears a distinct physiognomy, and is complete
within itself. Wonderful totality of the Germans—harmonious agreement
of taste, fancy and reality, to be found at a German watering-place, and
no where else in Germany! The republicanism and philosophy of the
Germans, driven from the residences of princes, have taken refuge at the
_Brunnens_, where they have established the democracy of high life—the
cosmopolitism of education and good breeding, and the individual
independence which is sometimes in vain sought in other commonwealths! I
will give here, by way of example, a short description of the principal
advantages of Baden-Baden—deservedly the most fashionable
watering-place now in Europe—to show what a fashionable resort of that
land can be made; and of what improvements our own are capable, if
people had a mind to be free and easy, at least as long as the
thermometer ranges from eighty to a hundred.
I shall not trouble my readers with a description of the various routes
that lead to Baden from Paris, London, or any other place they choose to
start from. They will find it laid down on every map of Germany, not far
from Strasburg and the Rhine, and the postillions in their high-boots,
leather inexpressibles, short-jackets and glazed hats, with bright brass
bugles dangling to their sides, on which they often charm their horses
and annoy their English passengers, are so accustomed to the road that
they are sure to carry you there within the time prescribed by law, (4
miles to the hour,) if you will promise not to disappoint them with the
_drink-geld_. A German postillion gets money merely for drink, and hence
his _douceur_ is called drink-money—the English translation of the
above idiom. This only I will say: that if you take the rail-road from
Carlsruhe to Baden-Baden, you have already a foretaste of the comforts
that await you. Of course you take first class cars, balanced on extra
steel springs, where, stretched on a rose-wood sofa, carved _à la
Renaissance_, with a large looking-glass before you, and an elegant
table between, you may either read, take notes, take a collation or
enjoy an agreeable _tête-à-tête_, as taste or opportunity may prompt
you. These cars are never crowded, and you are in them as in a lady’s
_boudoir_, treading softly on the carpet. Instead of the shrill whistle,
the hunter’s, respectively the postillion’s bugle, apprises you of your
arrival, the door is opened, and the conductor, doffing his cap with the
Grand Ducal arms, informs you that you have reached the place of your
destination. There is no trouble about the luggage, which is all marked
and registered, and sent to your hotel by the _agents of the road_, for
another _drink-geld_, regulated by a tariff.
And now as to the hotels, of which there are about twenty or thirty in
the place. The first question is: how large an apartment do you want? Do
you require two, three, four, five, six or more rooms? with the windows
looking into the garden or on the street? There are some rooms higher up
with a fine view of the mountains—some with a balcony, &c. These rooms
are not merely places to sleep in; they are as completely furnished as
those of your own house, with large glasses, sofas, lounges,
_fauteuils_, and every convenience of the town or residence you have
just left. You are in the country without missing any of the comforts of
the city. There are two excellent _tables d’hôte_, one at an early and
one at a late hour, (5 o’clock,) to suit your habits; breakfast in your
rooms when you ring; supper from seven or eight in the evening till four
or any o’clock the next morning, _à la carte_. Of course when you dine
in your room you command your dinner _à la carte_ also, but you better
leave that to the taste of your host. Every hotel has baths attached to
it, which you may command at any hour, and physicians who explain to you
their effect on the constitution, and with whom you may advise as to
your case. If you dine at the _table d’hôte_ you are sure to have a band
of music, which has at least the effect of promoting conversation, if it
does not refresh your memory with the most popular pieces of the last
opera. There is no public parlor; but the accommodations are such that
you may receive your friends in your own room. The public parlor is the
_Conversation House_, or _Kursaal_, where you see every body—not only
“the boarders of your hotel,” but the whole society of the place, which
meets there twice a day, and is to the visiters of Baden what the
capitol in Washington is to strangers in that city. This, of course,
prevents the formation of cliques or sets, or coteries that are, for
instance, formed at Saratoga, in regard, God save the mark! to the
boarding-place you may be at, and enables you to be in good society
without being observed; meeting your acquaintances, and yet obliged to
recognize none unless you choose to do so. During the season there are
some two or three thousand people every day at the Conversation House,
which, of an evening, I can compare to nothing better than the levee of
our President, with this exception only, that there is less of a jam,
and of course less confusion.
The Conversation House itself is a very tasteful and elegant building;
and some idea may be formed of the costliness of its furniture, when I
state that the painting of the walls of a single saloon in it has cost
fifty thousand francs. There are music and dancing, concerts and
theatrical representations connected with the Conversation House, and
only one marplot, which the government is about to suppress—the
gaming-table. The principal games played are _Rouge_ and _Noire, or
trente et quarante_, _Roulet_ and _Hazard_, introduced lately from
Crockford’s. But it is not considered good taste to gamble, though there
is usually a large gallery of spectators; and a lady at the gaming-table
is, indeed, a most sorry spectacle. Every body has a right to enter the
Conversation House _gratis_, from the time it is opened till it is
closed; provided the person, male or female, is properly dressed; and it
is the fashion to be dressed as simply as possible, and for the ladies
never to wear diamonds. Balls and concerts are given in separate rooms
by subscription; but even there it is considered bad taste and
absolutely vulgar, to appear in full dress. I have seen Prince Gallitzin
waltzing with the Duchess of Béthune, he dressed in a linen jacket, and
she wearing red morocco shoes! The only hair-dress which is not
absolutely ridiculous in a lady, consists of natural flowers. It is the
intention that all shall enjoy themselves equally, and that nothing
shall provoke remarks. The height of vulgarity, in a watering-place, is
to be distinguished. It is understood that all social obligations and
distinctions are suspended or cancelled at the watering-place, and that
no obligation there incurred need be recognized in the city. There is,
therefore, no fear of making disagreeable acquaintances, and the
agreeable ones must be renewed in town.
But what I have thus far stated is but half the real pleasure enjoyed at
a German watering-place, or the comfort that you can find there, if you
like to stay there for a season. In that case you had best hire an
_étage_ (a whole floor of a house, usually from five to ten rooms, with
a kitchen, &c.) or a whole house for yourself, all which you find
already furnished with kitchen utensils, crockery, silver, in short,
every thing that you have left at home, with even servants, if you
desire, to wait on you; all by the week, month, or the whole season. In
a similar manner may you hire your carriage by the day, week, month, or
season, your saddle-horse, or a donkey to ride over the mountains. You
are, in fact, surrounded by every convenience of London or Paris, and
yet, in half an hour’s drive, amidst the peasantry of the most laughing
villages of Germany.
Baden is not without its Italian Corso. Every afternoon, that is from 6
o’clock till dark, ladies and gentlemen drive from Baden to Lichtenthal,
a distance of not more than two English miles, but which, by art, is so
arranged as to convey the idea of a much longer jaunt. You drive all the
time through a most beautiful alley of horse-chestnuts; but you are not
fatigued with the tiresome monotony of a straight line, and its
diminishing perspective. The line you follow is serpentine, with unequal
curves on both sides, so as to lengthen your course and still keep you
in the valley bounded on both sides by semi-circular mountains. In this
manner you enjoy every possible scenery, and every advantageous position
to view it. Now the old castle, which you have just left, again bursts
on your sight; then the landscape seems to be changed into an open
prairie, bound on both sides by craggy rocks; then you find yourself
suddenly traversing a flower-garden, traveling along between rose-bushes
raised to the height of from eight to ten feet; and all at once you are
again, as if by magic, buried within the dark foliage of a dense oak
forest. Thus the scenery varies till you have come to the nunnery of
Lichtenthal, where you may alight and take some refreshment in the hotel
opposite, or if you are fond of clear, mountain streamlets, taste the
cool water of the rills that trickle down the mountains; some blowsy
children being always ready to present you with a tumbler-full on a
waiter, with a bunch of flowers placed by the side of it, for which you
are expected to make a small return. Germany is essentially the country
of flowers and music, and you can indulge in both of them, during the
season, at Baden-Baden. By the side of the alley of horse-chestnuts,
which is wide enough for two or three carriages to drive abreast, there
is another for cavaliers on horseback, so that ladies and gentlemen can
practice all the arts of refined coquetry whilst admiring the beauties
of nature, and enjoying the fragrant air with which this romantic valley
is constantly blessed. On the left hand, following the gurgling brook
which meanders through the valley, is a gravel-walk, sufficiently near
the drive for the promenaders to observe and to be observed, and with
its animated groups, much contributing to the variety of the scene.
There is no social difference observed between those who drive and those
who walk, parties frequently alighting from their carriages to join the
pedestrians, and carriages being ready on both ends of the promenade to
convey them. Whichever way you turn, social distinctions vanish—the
life you lead seems to be all romance; you have left the cares of the
world behind you, and are willing to look upon all men as honest and
true, and on all women as angels. Neither are you answerable for your
doings at the watering-place, except to your own conscience—all that
occurs there is a mere episode, you live, as it were, in a parenthesis.
What a pretty parenthesis one lives in at Saratoga with a “corps of
reporters” at one’s elbow to note one’s acts, and chronicle one’s
fancies! But this very freedom from social trammels is often the cause
of the most lasting affections, as those trees frequently strike the
deepest roots which are early exposed to the blast.
You have now returned from the _Corso_ to the Conversation House, which
on one side is leaning against the mountains, having in front a rich
park, and under the trees numerous stalls, where ladies may indulge in
the entertaining vocation of shopping, to ruin either husbands or
_gallants_. The shops, however, are now closed; the moon has risen, and
with her electro-galvanic power, is silvering the old walls of the
castle, perched, like an eagle’s nest, on the mountain. As you pass on,
her playful light twinkles through the leaves, and paints grotesque
figures on ladies’ shawls and bonnets, which are not to be imitated
either by Nancy or Paris embroidery, and are handsomest when falling on
plain gauze or muslin, slightly veiling the sylph-like forms that flit
between the trees.
In front of the Conversation House is the orangery, with the golden
fruit of Hesperus suspended from its dark green branches; an ocean of
light from lamps placed between the trees, gives a magic appearance to
the crowd that floats between them; and a scientific orchestra of from
twenty-four to thirty instruments, diffuses harmony through the cool
evening breeze, till its melodious notes die with faint echo in the
mountains.
In that promenade, though not measuring more than six or eight hundred
paces, you seem to take an optical trip through Europe. You hear every
language spoken, and behold every possible costume, from the
straight-laced Englishman to the turbaned Turk and the ample-folded
Armenian. The Italian, French, Spanish, English, Russian, German, and
Oriental tongues are here mingling with one another without producing
the least confusion, or making any one believe that he is not at home.
The Englishman, with his two left hands, so manly in public life, and so
peevish and awkward in society, almost unbends; the fiery Spaniard
forgets his Prado and the dark eyes of Madrid; the mocking Frenchman
leaves off his _bons-mots_; the Russian thaws from his icy despotism;
and the enthusiastic Italian himself swears that this would have been a
scene for the love of Petrarca. But the thoughtful German, with his
abstractions and enthusiasm running in rich veins deep beneath the
surface, flies from the throng, and climbing up the footpath of the
mountain, carved in the rock by patient taste, breathes soft vows to
willingly listening ears, in the sweet solitude of moonlight.
Connected with the Conversation House is a _restaurateur_, who is at the
same time a _limonadier_ and _glacier_. There is nothing that the _Café
de Paris_, the _Maison d’or_, _Tortoni_, the _Rocher de Cancale_, or the
_Trois frères Provençaux_ can furnish, that you do not find on the
_carte_ of this practical _epicure_; while instead of the glass-boxes in
which you are obliged to dine or sup, in Paris, you are here served in a
spacious gallery, ornamented with plants and flowers from the four
quarters of the globe, a thousand times reflected in gigantic mirrors.
Every thing here seems to be arranged by the hands of a kind fairy, and
the repasts themselves are served with a promptitude and a precision as
if the spirits attending you were obeying the magic wand of an
enchanter.
A reading-room and a circulating library are also connected with the
establishment. The latter contains the standard works, and the latest
publications in English, French, and German you are sure to find there
the best; and there is no club in England that can furnish a greater
variety of newspapers, English, French, German, Italian, and Spanish
journals, with the New York Herald, and the Courier and Enquirer.
It is long past midnight when you return home, but the hotels, and many
private residences, are still lit up, and music, that sweet concomitant
of life in Germany, is still greeting you as you wind your way through
the crooked streets.
In no part of Europe do you see a British peer dining _table d’hôte_;
but the watering-places of Germany make an exception from the rule. I
have seen the most aristocratic leaders of the Tory party (that
was)—certainly not without a proper train of English
toadies—lieutenant-generals in the army of the historical house of
S——t, and India nabobs, content with the public ordinary, though the
ladies of the party are seldom seen without a _dragon_. “What is a
dragon?” will some of my readers ask. I will explain. A dragon, applied
to a young English gentlewoman is what an “_elephant_” is applied to a
German. It consists of an old maiden aunt, or some other distant
relation, whose business it is to superintend the conduct of a young
lady that is just “out.” Her functions resemble those of the old nurse
in Romeo and Juliet, only that she is much more watchful, and seldom or
ever to be bribed. If you attempt to corrupt her, you rouse the British
lion, or the Dragon of St. George; hence the name, which has been given
them by the French. The acerbity of the temper of English dragons
renders them generally lean and gaunt; but in Germany, where good nature
abounds, they grow fat, though with a dogged obstinacy which is as
insulting as it is provoking, they will squat down on the sofa right
between you and the lady you wish to entertain; proving a most palpable
objection to a _tête-à-tête_, for which reason they are properly called
“elephants.”
The business of an English dragon at a _table d’hôte_ in a German
watering-place, is to occupy a seat on that flank of a lady which is
threatened with a masculine invasion. As a further precaution, and a
sort of second line of circumvallation, the seat next to the dragon is
left unoccupied, because they expect a friend at dinner, who is always
invited, but who never comes, and for whom no landlord dares to make a
charge, be the table ever so crowded. Thus guarded and fortified, a
young Englishwoman of family may defy siege or assault from any quarter;
in a watering-place, however, it is best not to feel too secure, and to
rely not altogether either on the beasts I have just named, or those
which are conspicuously displayed on escutcheons.
While upon this chapter, I may as well allude to the fact, that there is
no “match-making” at a German watering-place; and that gentlemen, from
the extreme freedom of manners which is tolerated, are not expected to
pay the debts of their gallantry. A gentleman, having danced or
conversed with a lady, or been introduced to her in every form used in
society, does not yet acquire a right to call on her; and having even
been invited in the place, has not yet received the privilege of making
his bow in town. So, then, society is left to its own good sense, and
with no other but individual responsibilities. There is no shrewd
distinction between elder sons and Tartars;[2] no forced attention to
heiresses, and consequently, no arrogant neglect of “poor beauties.”
Grace and loveliness enchant by their own charms, and wealth is courted
only at the end of the season.
Such is a German watering-place for three months in the year—from the
1st of July to the end of September, though the latter part of that
month the place begins to thin; and in the winter these places are
nothing but pretty villages, with fine white houses and spacious hotels.
A few calculating Englishmen, however, have discovered that living there
all the year round would enable them to practice such economy that they
might, in the season, cut a very great dash without spending much money
in the aggregate. Accordingly, some twenty or thirty families—swallows
whose pinions are clipped, and will not admit of yearly migrations—have
made their nests there for the winter; and the most forlorn-looking
creatures they are, if you get a chance to see them. The men affect to
indulge in the chase, and the dowager ladies in a quiet rubber of whist,
whilst the young women divide their time between novels and embroidery.
No nightingale longs for the return of the seasons as they do; they
become true lovers of nature, and prefer the cool evenings of summer to
all the gayeties of the carnival.
But I have not yet enumerated all the advantages of German
watering-places, and particularly of Baden-Baden. Not only are the
drives about the town very handsome, but also those within a
circumference of from ten to twenty miles. You may take a drive to the
old and the new castle (a new castle in Germany is one which dates from
the 16th century) to the Mercury—a sort of watch-tower perched on the
summit of the highest mountain in the panorama which surrounds you—to
Gernsbach, a delightful village, situated in a romantic valley, through
whose apparently quiet bosom a mountain-torrent is rushing, like a wild
passion, toward the father of the German streams, old Helvetian
Rhine—or to the old chapel—or, if you are fond of wild scenery, to the
craggy cliffs of the Black Forest. All these roads are built at an
enormous expense, and with great skill through narrow defiles, over
precipices, real and artificial, and in a serpentine manner so as to
command a variety of views. The roads are as level as the floor of your
parlor; a much more direct footpath, resembling the neatest gravel-walk
in your garden, conducts pedestrians to the same places.
Wherever you find a beautiful spot, with a commanding sight, there you
will find a bench and one or more oak chairs, where you may rest
yourself and enjoy the landscape at your ease. Even on the road for
carriages a space is left for turning or halting wherever a commanding
view presents itself to the eye. In this careful treasuring up of the
wealth of nature, the Germans have no equal in Europe. Theirs are the
quiet enjoyment of contemplativeness—the dreams, called forth by an
ardent love of the great fountains of inspiration. But who is there
deriving happiness from bare realities, without reminiscences of the
past, or hopes of the future?
The old castle is a ruin of very ancient date, but several rooms in it
have been refitted, of course in the style of the middle ages, with huge
massive oak tables and chairs, arched windows, with painted glass, and
armorial _frescos_. The old dungeon has been, very properly, transformed
into a wine-cellar, the only prisoners being huge casks of hock, and a
corresponding number of long-necked bottles. On a writ of _habeas
corpus_, any of these will be brought before you, and you may drink the
health of the present Grand Duke—a poor devil of a fellow, whose place
ought to have been occupied by _Caspar Hauser_—or the memory of his
worthy ancestors, in the finest room that is left in their old
residence. You will also find an excellent restaurant, and a _cafetier_,
who, in the midst of the remnants of past ages, will present you with a
_carte_, the very copy of which you may have seen at Mavart’s, or at the
_Café Anglais_. After dinner you may climb up the old tower, and from
the dilapidated loop-holes of the fourteenth century, contemplate the
improvements of the nineteenth, as the cars from _Carlsruhe_ rattle over
the rails.
There is, indeed, a peculiar pleasure in thus scanning, with a single
glance, the vestiges of five successive centuries; to view the past and
the present, and to lose oneself in the contemplation of the future. You
can almost realize immortality in beholding the works of twenty
generations, and the undying spirit that produced them, without having
lost one atom of its pristine energy or vigor. The world spirit is ever
young, though one generation after another dies in its embrace, each
cherishing its own fond hope of everlasting life. The contemplation of
the future steels men’s nerves to patient enterprise and heroic valor;
but the retrospective is the true element of poetry. The future, from
our limited perception, is necessarily shapeless; but the past, aided by
distance, stands out in bold relief, and the colossal figures of history
animate the scene. They stand on pedestals, animating or warning
examples in all times to come. There is a peculiar species of
romanticism connected with the remnants of the middle ages. They are
nearer to us than the classical ruins of antiquity, and from their
immediate connection create stronger sympathies. The spiritualism of the
middle ages contrasts advantageously with the materialism of the Greeks
and Romans, and has a stronger and more direct hold on our imagination.
The ruins of Rome, Athens, and Carthage, lead to a train of reflections
which leave you comparatively cold; while the turreted castle and
time-defying walls of our own immediate ancestors strike us like
reminiscences of our own childhood.
Descending the castled mountain, and taking the road toward the Hunter’s
Lodge, the scenery becomes more and more wild; the habitations of men
disappear, and pursuing your route some few hours, you find yourself at
once transplanted to the most picturesque scenes of the Alleghanies. You
are now in the Black Forest, one of the few spots in Europe where you
behold primitive oaks, as yet undesecrated by the woodman’s axe, and
land which has never been tilled by the ploughman. Here is a little
miniature painting, beautifully set in diamond spires and emerald hills
on the one side, and the pearly Rhine on the other. Some there are who
think the setting more valuable than the picture; but diplomacy has a
different opinion on the subject, and has always valued the Black Forest
as one of the most important strategical positions of Germany.
There is no sea-bathing in Europe equal in natural grandeur to either
Cape May, or Long Branch. The most frequented watering-place of that
sort, on the Continent, is Ostende; but the Belgians are the most
unpoetical, unamiable people of Europe. With more historic lore than
almost any other modern people, their minds are as flat as their
soil,[3] and their manners as unsociable as the Spanish hangman, _Alba_,
could have made them. Their religion is petrified, their literature
stale, and there is nothing of the ideal in them. It is in the bogs of
Flanders where the home-sick Swiss mountaineer is most tempted to commit
suicide. Ostende, independent of the beach, which does not compare to
our own sea-shore, is extremely dreary. Nothing but sand, sand-hills,
and morasses, surround it. It is true, these morasses have been
cultivated by the extreme patience and industry of the Flemish peasant,
but there is a monotony in their fields and parks, and even in their
gardens, which can drive you mad. Every thing answers a useful purpose,
but to the imagination it is a dreary waste.
Ostende, during the summer season, is nevertheless a picture of Europe
in miniature. You can reach it from England in eight hours, from
Brussels in six, from Paris in sixteen, from the Rhine (Cologne) in
fifteen. Brighton, on the opposite side of the Channel, is nevertheless
a paradise to it, if any thing can be called a paradise where, instead
of the primitive manners of the first couple, you meet with the
exclusive dampness of English society. But nature has blessed that
little Island of Great Britain—the Japan of the European sea—with so
many gifts, that the strange organization of its society appears to be
less the offspring of that peculiar irony which runs through history,
than a means of tempering “the envy of less happier lands,” and making
them comparatively content with their fate. Every Continental
watering-place is crowded with Englishmen, who come there to enjoy
social freedom; those of England are nothing but epitomes of the
concentric circles which mark the monotonous orbits of the different
classes of English society. The elements do not mingle, form no
harmonious groups, and have nothing cheering either for the imagination
or the heart.
There is great danger that the society of our own watering-places is
gradually copying the model, without having the same uniform, and on
that account more endurable standard of division. The different coteries
of a large city—the necessary consequence of the difference of
refinement and education—need not necessarily conflict with each other;
but they are intolerable in a small place, where the distinctions are
constantly before your eyes, can hardly be kept up without rudeness.
Fancy half a dozen coteries dining at the same table, meeting at least
three times a day, and then spending the evening together in the same
parlor. It must be a perfect little purgatory, from whose pains there is
no respite, except by diving in the broad Atlantic.
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[1] I purposely avoid the English dandyism “rail_way_.”
[2] Younger sons without fortune.—_Remark of the Editors._
[3] I, of course, except the people of Liege and the Ardennes, who are
descended from the Gauls, and are only politically united with Flanders
and Brabant.
* * * * *