I left Cassel with a heart far heavier than I had brought into it some
weeks before. The poor fellow, whose remains I followed to the grave,
was ever in my thoughts, and all our pleasant rambles and our familiar
intercourse, were now shadowed over by the gloom of his sad destiny. So
must it ever be. He who seeks the happiness of his life upon the world’s
highways, must learn to carry, as best he may, the weary load of trouble
that “flesh is heir to.” There must be storm for sunshine; and for the
bright days and warm airs of summer, he must feel the lowering skies and
cutting winds of winter.
I set out on foot, muttering as I went, the lines of poor Marguerite’s
song, which my own depression had brought to memory.
“Mein Ruh ist hin. Mein Hers ist schwer; Ich finde sie nimmer--und,
nimmer mehr.”
The words recalled the Faust--the Faust, the Brocken, and so I thought I
could not do better than set out thither. I was already within three
days’ march of the Hartz, and besides, I should like to see Göttingen
once more, and have a peep at my old friends there.
It was only as I reached Münden to breakfast, that I remembered it was
Sunday, and so when I had finished my meal, I joined my host and his
household to church. What a simplicity is there in the whole
Protestantism of Germany--how striking is the contrast between the
unpretending features of the Reformed, and the gorgeous splendour of the
Roman Catholic Church. The benches of oak, on which were seated the
congregation, made no distinctions of class and rank. The little village
authorities were mingled with the mere peasants--the Pastor’s family sat
nearest to the reading-desk--that, was the only place distinguished from
the others. The building, like most of its era, was plain and un-
ornamented--some passages from Scripture were written on the walls, in
different places, but these were its only decoration. As I sat, awaiting
the commencement of the service, I could not avoid being struck by the
marked difference of feature, observable in Protestant, from what we see
in Roman Catholic communities--not depending upon nationality, for
Germany itself is an illustration in point. The gorgeous ceremonial of
the Romish Church--its venerable architecture--its prestige of
antiquity--its pealing organ, and its incense--all contribute to a
certain exaltation of mind, a fervour of sentiment, that may readily be
mistaken for true religious feeling. These things, connected and bound
up with the most awful and impressive thoughts the mind of man is
capable of, cannot fail to impress upon the features of the worshippers,
an expression of profound, heartfelt adoration, which poetizes the most
commonplace, and elevates the tone of even the most vulgar faces. Retsch
had not to go far for those figures of intense devotional character his
works abound in--every chapel contained innumerable studies for his
pencil. The features of the Protestant worshippers were calm, even to
sternness--the eyes, not bent upon some great picture, or some holy
relic, with wondering admiration, were downcast in meditation deep, or
raised to heaven with thoughts already there. There was a holy and a
solemn awe in every face, as though in the presence of _Him_, and in
_His_ Temple, the passions and warm feelings of man were an unclean
offering; that to understand His truths, and to apply His counsels, a
pure heart and a clear understanding were necessary--and these they
brought. To look on their cold and stedfast faces, you would say that
Luther’s own spirit--his very temperament, had descended to his
followers. There was the same energy of character--the indomitable
courage--the perseverance, no obstacle could thwart--the determination,
no opposition could shake. The massive head, square and strong--the
broad, bold forehead--the full eye--the wide nostril, and the thick lip-
-at once the indication of energy, of passion, and of power, are seen
throughout Saxony as the types of national features.
The service of the Lutheran church is most simple, and like that of our
Presbyterians at home, consists in a hymn, a portion of Scripture read
out, and--what is considered the greatest point of all--a sermon, half
prayer, half dissertation, which concludes the whole. Even when the
Pastors are eloquent men, which they rarely are, I doubt much if German
be a language well suited for pulpit oratory. There is an eternal
involution of phrase, a complexity in the expression of even simple
matters, which would for ever prevent those bold imaginative flights by
which Bossuet and Massillon appealed to the hearts and minds of their
hearers. Were a German to attempt this, his mysticism--the “maladie du
pays”--would at once interfere, and render him unintelligible. The
pulpit eloquence of Germany, so far as I have experience of it, more
closely resembles the style of the preachers of the seventeenth century,
when familiar illustrations were employed to convey such truths as rose
above the humble level of ordinary intellects; having much of the
grotesque quaintness our own Latimer possessed, without, unhappily, the
warm glow of his rich imagination, or the brilliant splendour of his
descriptive talent. Still the forcible earnestness, and the strong
energy of conviction, are to be found in the German pulpit, and these
also may be the heirlooms of “the Doctor.” as the Saxons love to call
the great reformer.
Some thoughts like these suggested a visit to the Wartburg, the scene of
Luther’s captivity--for such, although devised with friendly intent, his
residence there was; and so abandoning the Brocken, for the “nonce,” I
started for Eisenach.
As you approach the town of Eisenach--for I’m not going to weary you
with the whole road,--you come upon a little glen in the forest, the
“Thuringer Wald,” where the road is completely overshadowed, and even at
noonday, is almost like night. A little well, bubbling in a basin of
rock, stands at the road-side, where an iron ladle, chained to the
stone, and a rude bench, proclaim that so much of thought has been
bestowed on the wayfarer. As you rest from the heat and fatigue of the
day, upon that humble seat, you may not know that Martin Luther himself
sat on that very bench, tired and wayworn, as he came back from Worms,
where, braving the power of king and kaiser, he had gone manfully to
defend his opinions, and assert the doctrines of the Reformation.
It was there he lay down to sleep--a sleep I would dare to say; not the
less tranquil, because the excommunication of Rome had been fulminated
over his head. He was alone. He had refused every offer of
companionship, which zeal for the cause and personal friendship had
prompted, when suddenly he was aroused by the tramp of armed men, and
the heavy clattering of horses, coming up the glen. He knew his life was
sought for by his enemies, and what a grateful deed his assassination
would be to record within the halls of many a kingly palace. In an
instant, he was on his legs, and grasping his trusty broad-sword, he
awaited the attack. Not too soon, however, for scarcely had the horsemen
come within sight, than, putting spurs to their steeds, they bore down
upon him; then checking their horses suddenly, the leader called aloud
to him, to surrender himself his prisoner.
Good Martin’s reply was a stroke of his broad-sword that brought the
summoner from his saddle to the ground. Parley was at an end now, and
they rushed on him at once. Still, it was clear that their wish was not
to kill him, which from their numbers and superior equipment, could not
have been difficult. But Luther’s love of liberty was as great as his
love of life, and he laid about him like one who would sell either as
dearly as he could. At length, pressed by his enemies on every side, his
sword broke near the hut, he threw the useless fragment from his hand,
and called out, “Ich kann nicht mehr!”--“I can do no more!”
He was now bound with cords, and his eyes bandaged, conveyed to the
castle of the Wartburg, about two miles distant, nor did he know for
several days after, that the whole was a device of his friend and
protector, the Elector of Saxony, who wished to give currency to the
story, that Luther’s capture was a real one, and the Wartburg his
prison, and not, as it really proved, his asylum. Here he spent nearly a
year, occupied in the translation of the Bible, and occasionally
preaching in the small chapel of the “Schloss.” His strange fancies of
combats with the evil one, are among the traditions of the place, and
the torn plaster of the wall is pointed out as the spot where he hurled
his inkstand at the fiend, who tormented him in the shape of a large
blue-bottle fly.
One cannot see, unmoved, that rude chamber, with its simple furniture of
massive oak, where the great monk meditated those tremendous truths that
were to shake thrones and dynasties, and awake the world from the
charmed sleep of superstition, in which, for centuries, it lay buried.
The force of his strong nature, his enthusiasm, and a kind of savage
energy he possessed, frequently overbalanced his reason, and he gave way
to wild rantings and ravings, which often followed on the longest
efforts of his mental labour, and seemed like the outpourings of an
overcharged intellect. The zeal with which he prosecuted his great task,
was something almost miraculous--often for thirty, or even forty, hours,
did he remain at the desk without food or rest, and then such was his
exhaustion, bodily as well as mental, that he would fall senseless on
the floor, and it required all the exertions of those about him to rally
him from these attacks. His first sensations on recovering, were ever
those of a deadly struggle with the evil one, by whose agency alone he
believed his great work was interrupted; and then the scene which
succeeded would display all the fearful workings of his diseased
imagination. From these paroxysms, nothing seemed to awake him so
readily, as the presence of his friend Melancthon, whose mild nature and
angelic temperament were the exact opposites of his bold, impetuous
character. The sound of his voice alone would frequently calm him in his
wildest moments, and when the torrent of his thought ran onward with mad
speed, and shapes and images flitted before his disordered brain, and
earthly combats were mingled in his mind with more dreadful conflicts,
and that he burst forth into the violent excesses of his passion--then,
the soft breathings of Melancthon’s flute, would still the storm, and
lay the troubled waters of his soul--that rugged nature would yield even
to tears, and like a child, he would weep till slumber closed his eyes.
I lingered the entire day in the Wartburg--sometimes in the Rittersaal,
where suits of ancient and most curious armour are preserved; sometimes
in the chapel, where the rude desk is shown at which Luther lectured to
the household of the “Schloss.” Here, too, is a portrait of him, which
is alleged to be authentic. The features are such as we see in all his
pictures; the only difference I could perceive, was, that he is
represented with a moustache, which gives, what a Frenchman near me
called an “air brigand” to the stern massiveness of his features. This
circumstance, slight as it is, rather corroborates the authenticity of
the painting, for it is well known that during his residence at the
Wartburg, he wore his beard in this fashion, and to many retainers of
the castle, passed for a Ritter, or a knight confined for some crime
against the state.
With a farewell look at the old chamber, where stands his oaken chair
and table, I left the Schloss, and as night was falling descended
towards Eisenach--for a description of whose water-mills and windmills,
whose cloth factories and toy shops, I refer you to various and several
guide books--only begging to say, on my own account, that the “Reuten
Kranta” is a seemly inn, and the host a pleasant German of the old
school; that is, in other words, one whose present life is always about
twenty years in advance of his thoughts, and who, while he eats and
drinks in the now century, thinks and feels with that which is gone. The
latest event of which he had any cognizance, was the retreat from
Leipsic, when the French poured through the village for five days
without ceasing. All the great features of that memorable retreat,
however, were absorbed in his mind, by an incident which occurred to
himself, and at which, by the gravity of his manner in relating it, I
could not help laughing heartily.
When the commissariat arrived at Eisenach, to make arrangement for the
troops on their march, they allowed the inhabitants the option--a
pleasant one--of converting the billets, imposed upon them, for a
certain sum of money, in virtue of which, they obtained an exemption
from all intrusion on the part of men and officers, save those of the
rank of colonel and upwards; and in evidence, a great placard was
affixed to their door, setting forth the same, as a “general order,” Now
as it was agreed that only one officer should be accommodated at a time,
the privilege was worth paying for, particularly by our host of the “Rue
Garland,” whose larder was always stored with delicacies, and whose
cellar was famed for thirty miles round. He accordingly counted down his
reichs-thalers, gulden, and groschen--with a heavy heart it is true, but
to avert a heavier evil, and with his grand patent of immunity, hung out
upon his sign post, he gave himself no farther trouble about the war or
its chances. On the third evening of the retreat, however, a regiment of
the Chasseurs de la Garde, conspicuous by their green coats and white
facings, the invariable costume of the Emperor himself, entered the
town, and bivouacked in the little square. The colonel, a handsome
fellow of about five-and-thirty, or forty, looked about him sharply for
a moment or two, irresolute where he should fix his resting-place; when
a savoury odour of sausages frying in the “Reuten Krantz,” quickly
decided his choice. He entered at once, and making his bow to mine host,
with that admirable mixture of deference and command a Frenchman can
always assume, ordered his dinner to be got ready, and a bed prepared
for him.
It was well worth the host’s while to stand on good terms with the
officers of rank, who could repress, or wink, at the liberties of the
men, as occasion served, and so the “Rue Garland” did its utmost that
day to surpass itself.
“Je dois vous prévenir,” said the colonel, laughing as he strolled from
the door, after giving his directions, “Je dois vous prévenir, que je
mange bien, et beaucoup.”
“Monsieur shall be content,” said the host, with a tap on his own
stomach, as though to say,--“The nourishment that has sufficed for this,
may well content such a carcass as thine--”
“And as for wine--continued the colonel.
“Zum kissen!” cried the host, with a smack of his lips, that could be
heard over the whole Platz, and which made a poor captain’s mouth water,
who guessed the allusion.
I shall not detail for my reader, though I most certainly heard myself
the long bill of fare, by which the Rue Branch intended to astonish the
weak nerves of the Frenchman, little suspecting, at the time, how mutual
the surprise was destined to be. I remember there was “fleisch” and
“braten” without end, and baked pike, and sausages, and boar’s head, and
eels, and potted mackerel, and brawn, and partridges; not to speak of
all the roots that ever gave indigestion since the flood, besides
sweetmeats and puddings, for whose genera and species it would take
Buffon and Cuvier to invent a classification. As I heard the formidable
enumeration, I could not help expressing my surprise at the extent of
preparations, so manifestly disproportionate to the amount of the
company; but the host soon satisfied me on this head, by saying, “that
they were obliged to have an immense supply of cold viands always ready
to sell to the other officers throughout the town, whom,” he added in a
sly whisper, “they soon contrived to make pay for the heavy ransom
imposed on themselves.” The display, therefore, which did such credit to
his hospitality, was made with little prospect of injuring his pocket--a
pleasant secret, if it only were practicable.
The hour of dinner arrived at last, and the Colonel, punctual to the
moment, entered the salon, which looked out by a window on the Platz--a
strange contrast, to be sure, for his eyes; the great side-board loaded
with luscious fare, and covered by an atmosphere of savoury smoke; and
the meagre bivouack without, where groups of officers sat, eating their
simple rations, and passing their goblets of washy beer from hand to
hand.
Rouchefoucauld says, “There is always something pleasant in the
misfortunes of our best friends;” and as I suppose he knew his
countrymen, I conclude that the Colonel arranged his napkin on his knee
with a high sense of enjoyment for the little panorama which met his
eyes on the Platz.
It must certainly have been a goodly sight, and somewhat of a surprise
besides, for an old campaigner to see the table groaning under its
display of good things; amid which, like Lombardy poplars in a Flemish
landscape, the tall and taper necks of various flasks shot up--some
frosted with an icy crest, some cobwebbed with the touch of time.
Ladling the potage from a great silver tureen of antique mould, the host
stood beside the Colonel’s chair, enjoying--as only a host can enjoy--
the mingled delight and admiration of his guest; and now the work began
in right earnest. What an admirable soup, and what a glass of
“Niederthaler”--no hock was ever like it; and those pâtés--they were “en
bechamelle.” “He was sorry they were not oysters, but the Chablis, he
could vouch for.” And well he might; such a glass of wine might console
the Emperor for Leipsic.
“How did you say the trout was fried, my friend?”
“In mushroom gravy, dashed with anchovy.”
“Another slice, if you’ll permit me,” pop! “That flask has burst its
bonds in time; I was wishing to taste your ‘OEil de Perdrix.’”
The outposts were driven in by this time, and the heavy guns of the
engagement were brought down; in other words, the braten, a goodly dish
of veal, garnished with every incongruity the mind of man could muster,
entered; which, while the host carved at the side-board, the Colonel
devoured in his imagination, comforting himself the while by a salmi of
partridges with truffles.
Some invaluable condiment had, however, been forgotten with the veal,
and the host bustled out of the room in search of it. The door had not
well closed, when the Colonel dashed out a goblet of Champagne, and
drank it at a draught; then, springing from the window into the Platz,
where already the shadow of evening was falling, was immediately
replaced by the Major, whose dress and general appearance were
sufficiently like his own to deceive any stranger.
Helping himself without loss of time to the salmi, he ate away, like one
whose appetite had suffered a sore trial from suspense.
The salmi gave place to the veal, and the veal to the baked pike; for so
it is, the stomach, in Germany, is a kind of human ark, wherein, though
there is little order in the procession, the animals enter whole and
entire. The host watched his guest’s performance, and was in ecstasies--
good things never did meet with more perfect appreciation; and as for
the wine, he drank it like a Swabian, whole goblets full at a draught.
At length, holding up an empty flask, he cried out “Champagne!” And away
trotted the fat man to his cellar, rather surprised, it is true, how
rapidly three flasks of his “Aï Mousseux” had disappeared.
This was now the critical moment, and with a half-sigh of regret, the
Major leaped into the street, and the first Captain relieved the guard.
Poor fellow, he was fearfully hungry, and helped himself to the first
dish before him, and drank from the bottle at his side, like one whose
stomach had long ceased to be pampered by delicacies.
“Du Heiliger!” cried the host to himself, as he stood behind his chair,
and surveyed the performance. “Du Heiliger! how he does eat, one
wouldn’t suppose he had been at it these fifty minutes; art ready for
the capon now?” continued he, as he removed the keel and floor timbers
of a saddle of mutton.
“The capon,” sighed the other; “Yes, the capon, now.” Alas! he knew that
delicious dish was reserved for his successor. And so it was; before the
host re-entered, the second Captain had filled his glass twice, and was
anxiously sitting in expectation of the capon.
Such a bird as it was!--a very sarcophagus of truffles--a mine of
delicious dainties of every clime and cuisine.
“Good--eh?”
“Delicious!” said the second Captain, filling a bumper, and handing it
to the host, while he clinked his own against it in friendly guise.
“A pleasant fellow, truly,” said the host, “and a social--but, Lord, how
he eats! There go the wings and the back! Himmel und Erde! if he isn’t
at the pasty now!”
“Wine!” cried the Frenchman, striking the table with the empty bottle,
“Wine.”
The host crossed himself, and went out in search of more liquor,
muttering as he shuffled along, “What would have become of me, if I
hadn’t paid the indemnity!”
The third Captain was at his post before the host got back, and whatever
the performance of his predecessors, it was nothing to his. The pasty
disappeared like magic, the fricandeau seemed to have melted away like
snow before the sun; while he drank, indiscriminately, Hock, Hermitage,
and Bordeaux, as though he were a camel, victualling himself for a three
weeks’ tramp in the desert.
The poor host now walked round the board, and surveyed the “débris” of
the feast, with a sad heart. Of all the joints which he hoped to have
seen cold on the shelves of his larder, some ruined fragments alone
remained. Here was the gable end of a turkey--there, the side wall of a
sirloin; on one side, the broken roof of a pasty; on the other, the bare
joists of a rib of beef. It was the Palmyra of things eatable, and a sad
and melancholy sight to gaze on.
“What comes next, good host?” cried the third Captain, as he wiped his
lips with his napkin.
“Next!” cried the host, in horror, “Hagel und regen! thou canst not eat
more, surely!”
“I don’t know that,” replied the other, “the air of these mountains
freshens the appetite--I might pick a little of something sweet.”
With a groan of misery, the poor host placed a plum pie before the all-
devouring stranger, and then, as if to see that no legerdemain was
practised, stationed himself directly in front, and watched every
morsel, as he put it into his mouth. No, the thing was all fair, he ate
like any one else, grinding his food and smacking his lips, like an
ordinary mortal. The host looked down on the floor, and beneath the
cloth of the table--what was that for? Did he suspect the stranger had a
tail?
“A glass of mulled claret with cloves!” said the frenchman, “and then
you may bring the dessert.”
“The Heavens be praised!” cried the host as he swept the last fragments
of the table into a wide tray, and left the room.
“Egad! I thought you had forgotten me altogether, Captain,” said a
stout, fat fellow, as he squeezed himself with difficulty through the
window, and took his seat at the table. This was the Quarter-master of
the Regiment, and celebrated for his appetite throughout the whole
brigade.
“Ach Gott! how he is swelled out!” was the first exclamation of the
host, as he re-entered the room; “and no wonder either, when one thinks
of what he has eaten.”
“How now, what’s this?” shouted the Quarter-master, as he saw the
dessert arranging on the table, “Sacré tonnerre! what’s all this?”
“The dessert--if you can eat it,” said the host, with a deep sigh.
“Eat it!--no--how the devil should I?”
“I thought not,” responded the other, submissively, “I thought not, even
a shark will get gorged at last!”
“Eh, what’s that you say?” replied the Quarter-master, roughly, “you
don’t expect a man to dine on figs and walnuts, or dried prunes and
olives, do you?”
“Dine!” shouted the host, “and have you not dined?”
“No, mille bombes, that I haven’t--as you shall soon see!”
“Alle Gute Geisten loben den Hernn!” said the host, blessing himself,
“An thou be’st the Satanus, I charge thee keep away!”
A shout of laughter from without, prevented the Quartermaster’s reply to
this exorcism being heard; while the trumpet sounded suddenly for “boot
and saddle.”
With a bottle of wine stuffed in each pocket, the Quartermaster rose
from table, and hurried away to join his companions, who had received
sudden orders to push forward towards Cassel, and as the bewildered host
stood at his window, while the regiment filed past, each officer saluted
him politely, as they cried out in turn, “Adieu, Monsieur! my
compliments to the braten”--“the turkey was delicious”--“the salmi
perfect”--“the capon glorious”--“the venison a chef-d’ouvre!” down to
the fat Quarter-master, who, as he raised a flask to his lips, and shook
his head reproachfully, said, “Ah! you old screw, nothing better than
nuts and raisins to give a hungry man for his dinner!” And so they
disappeared from the Platz, leaving mine host in a maze of doubt and
bewilderment, which it took many a day and night’s meditation to solve
to his own conviction.
Though I cannot promise myself that my reader will enjoy this story as
much as I did, I could almost vouch for his doing so, if he heard it
from the host of the “Reuten Krantz” himself, told with the staid
gravity of German manner, and all the impressive seriousness of one who
saw in the whole adventure, nothing ludicrous whatever, but only a most
unfair trick, that deserved the stocks, or the pillory.
He was indeed a character in his way, his whole life had only room for
three or four incidents, about, and around which, his thoughts revolved,
as on an axis, and whose impression was too vivid to admit of any
occurrence usurping their place. When a boy, he had been in the habit of
acting as guide to the “Wartburg” to his father’s guests--for they were
a generation of innkeepers, time out of mind, and even yet, he spoke of
those days with transport.
It was amusing, too, to hear him talk of Luther, as familiarly as though
he had known him personally, mentioning little anecdotes of his career,
and repeating his opinions as if they were things of yesterday; but
indeed his mind had little more perspective than a Chinese tea-tray--
everything stood beside its neighbour, without shadow, or relief of any
kind, and to hear him talk, you would say that Melancthon and Marshal
Macdonald might have been personal friends, and Martin Luther and Ney
passed an evening in the blue salon of the Reuten Krantz. As for
Eisenach and all about it, he knew as little as though it were a city of
Egypt. He _hoped_ there was a public library now--he _knew_ there was in
his father’s time, but the French used to make cartridges with the books
in many towns they passed through--perhaps they had done the same here.
These confounded French--they seemed some way to fill every avenue of
his brain--there was no inlet of his senses, without a French sentinel
on guard over it.
Now,--for my sins, I suppose,--it so chanced that I was laid up here for
several weeks, with a return of an old rheumatism I had contracted in
one of my wanderings. Books, they brought me, but alas! the only volumes
a German circulating library ever contains are translations of the very
worst French and English works. The weather was, for the most part,
rainy and broken, and even when my strength permitted me to venture into
the garden, I generally got soundly drenched before I reached the house
again. What insupportable ennui is that which inhabits the inn of a
little remote town, where come few travellers, and no news! What a
fearful blank in existence is such a place. Just think of sitting in the
little silent and sanded parlour, with its six hard chairs, and one
straight old sofa, upholstered with flock and fleas; counting over the
four prints in black wood frames, upon the walls. Scripture subjects,
where Judith, with a quilted petticoat and sabots, cuts the head off a
Holofernes in buckskins and top boots, and catches the blood in a soup
tureen; an Abraham with a horse pistol, is threatening a little Isaac in
jacket and trowsers, with a most villanous expression about the corners
of his eyes; and the old looking-glass, cracked in the middle, and
representing your face, in two hemispheres, with a nose and one eye to
each--the whole tinged with a verd antique colouring that makes you look
like a man in bronze.
Outside the door, but near enough for every purpose of annoyance, stands
a great hulking old clock, that ticks away incessantly--true type of
time that passes on its road whether you be sick or sorry, merry or
mournful. With what a burr the old fellow announces that he is going to
strike--it is like the asthmatic wheezing of some invalid, making an
exertion beyond his strength, and then, the heavy plod of sabots, back
and forward through the little hall, into the kitchen, and out again to
the stable yard; with the shrill yell of some drabbled wench, screaming
for “Johann” or “Jacob;” and all the little platitudes of the “ménage”
that reach you, seasoned from time to time by the coarse laughter of the
boors, or the squabbling sounds that issue streetwards, where some
vender of “schnaps” or “kirch-wasser” holds his tap.
What a dreary sensation comes over one, to think of the people who pass
their lives in such a place, with its poor little miserable interests
and occupations! and how one shudders at the bare idea of sinking down
to the level of such a stagnant pool--knowing the small notorieties, and
talking like them; and yet, with all this holy horror, how rapidly, and
insensibly, is such a change induced. Every day rubs off some former
prejudice, and induces some new habit, and, as the eye of the prisoner,
in his darksome dungeon, learns to distinguish each object clear, as if
in noon-day; so will the mind accommodate itself to the moral gloom of
such a cell as this, ay, and take a vivid interest in each slight event
that goes on there, as though he were to the “manner born.”
In a fortnight, or even less, I lay awake, conjecturing why the urchin
who brought the mail from Gotha, had not arrived;--before three weeks I
participated in the shock of the town, at the conduct of the Frow von
Bütterwick, who raised the price of Schenkin or Schweinfleisch, I forget
which--by some decimal of a farthing; and fully entered into the
distressed feelings of the inhabitants, who foretold a European war,
from the fact that a Prussian corporal with a pack on his shoulders, was
seen passing through the town, that morning, before day-break.
When I came to think over these things, I got into a grievous state of
alarm. “Another week, Arthur,” said I, “and thou art done for: Eisenach
may claim thee as its own; and the Grand Duke of------, Heaven forgive
me! but I forget the Potentate of the realm,--he may summon thee to his
counsels, as the Hoch Wohlgeborner und Gelehrter, Herr von O’Leary; and
thou may’st be found here some half century hence, with a pipe in thy
mouth, and thy hands in thy side pockets, discoursing fat consonants,
like any Saxon of them all. Run for it, man, run for it; away, with half
a leg, if need be; out of the kingdom with all haste; and if it be not
larger than its neighbours, a hop, step, and jump, ought to suffice for
it.”
Will any one tell me--I’ll wager they cannot--why it is, that if you
pass a week or a month, in any out-of-the-way place, and either from
sulk or sickness, lead a solitary kind of humdrum life; that when you
are about to take your leave, you find half the family in tears. Every
man, woman, and child, thinks it incumbent on them to sport a mourning
face. The host wipes his eye with the corner of the bill; the waiter
blows his nose in the napkin; the chambermaid holds up her apron; and
boots, with a side wipe of his blacking hand, leaves his countenance in
a very fit state for the application of the polishing brush. As for
yourself, the position is awkward beyond endurance.
That instant you feel sick of the whole household, from the cellar to
the garret. You had perilled your soul in damning them all in turn; and
now it comes out, that you are the “enfant chéri” of the establishment.
What a base, blackhearted fellow you must be all the time; in short, you
feel it; otherwise, why is your finger exploring so low in the recesses
of your purse. Confound it, you have been very harsh and hasty with the
good people, and they did their best after all.
Take up your abode at Mivart’s or the Clarendon; occupy for the six
months of winter, the suite of apartments at Crillons or Meurice; engage
the whole of the “Schwann” at Vienna; aye, or even the Grand Monarque,
at Aix; and I’ll wager my head, you go forth at the end of it, without
causing a sigh in the whole household. Don’t flatter yourself that
Mivart will stand blubbering over the bill, or Meurice be half choked
with his sobs. The Schwann doesn’t care a feather of his wing, and as
for the Grand Monarque, you might as well expect his prototype would
rise from the grave to embrace you. A civil grin, that half implies,
“You’ve been well plucked here,” is the extent of parting emotion, and a
tear couldn’t be had for the price of Tokay.
Well, I bid adieu to the Reuten Krantz, in a different sort of mood from
what I expected. I shook the old “Rue Branch” himself heartily by the
hand, and having distributed a circle of gratuities--for the sum total
of which I should have probably been maltreated by a London waiter--I
took my staff, and sallied forth towards Weimar, accompanied by a shower
of prayers and kind wishes, that, whether sincere or not, made me feel
happier the whole day after.