A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM.--OUT-DOOR LIFE OF THE GERMAN PEOPLE.
VIENNA, August 13th.
No description of Germany--no picture of German life and manners--can
be complete which does not give some account of the out-door
recreations of the people; for this is a large part of their
existence; it is a feature of their national character, and an
important element in their national life. To know a people well, one
must see them not only in business, but in their lighter hours. One
may travel through Germany from the Baltic to the Adriatic, and see
all the palaces and museums and picture galleries, and yet be wholly
ignorant of the people. But if he has the good fortune to know a
single German family of the better class, into which he may be
received, not as a stranger, but as a guest and a friend--where he can
see the interior of a German _home_, and mark the strong affection of
parents and children, of brothers and sisters--he will get a better
idea of the real character of the people, than by months of living in
hotels. Next to the sacred interior of the home, the _public garden_
is the place where the German appears with least formality and
disguise, and in his natural character.
Since I came to Europe, I have been in no mood to seek amusement.
Indeed if I had followed my own impulse, it would have been to shun
every public resort, to live a very solitary life, going only to the
most retired places, and seeking only absolute seclusion and repose.
But that is not good for us in moments of sorrow. The mind is apt to
become morbid and gloomy. This is not the lesson which those who have
gone before would have us learn. On the contrary, they desire to have
us happy, and bid us with their dying breath seek new activity, new
scenes, and new mental occupation, to bind us to life.
Besides, I have had not only myself to consider, but a young life
beside me. In addition to that, we have now a third member of our
party. At Hamburg we were joined by my nephew, a lieutenant in the
Navy, who is attached to the Flagship Franklin, now cruising in the
Baltic, and who obtained leave of absence for a month to join his
sister, and is travelling with us in Germany. He is a fine young
officer full of life, and enters into everything with the greatest
zest. So, beguiled by these two young spirits, I have been led to see
more than I otherwise should of the open-air life and recreations of
these simple-hearted Germans; and I will briefly describe what I have
seen, as the basis of one or two reflections.
To begin with Hamburg. This is one of the most beautiful cities in
Germany. One part is indeed old and dingy, in which the narrow streets
are overhung with houses of a former century, now gone to decay. But
as we go back from the river, we mount higher, and come into an
entirely different town, with wide streets, lined with large and
imposing buildings. This part of the city was swept by a great fire a
few years ago, and has been very handsomely rebuilt. But the peculiar
beauty of Hamburg is formed by a small stream, the Alster, which runs
through the city, and empties into the Elbe, and which is dammed up so
as to form what is called by courtesy a lake, and what is certainly a
very pretty sheet of water. Around this are grouped the largest
hotels, and some of the finest buildings of the city, and this is the
centre of its joyous life, especially at the close of the day. When
evening comes on, all Hamburg flocks to the "Alster-dam." Our hotel
was on this lake, and from our windows we had every evening the most
animated scene. The water was covered with boats, among which the
swans glided about without fear. The quays were lighted up
brilliantly, and the cafes swarmed with people, all enjoying the cool
evening air. Both sexes and all ages were abroad to share in the
general gayety of the hour.
Some rigid moralists might look upon this with stern eyes, as if it
were a scene of sinful enjoyment, as if men had no right thus to be
happy in this wicked world. But I confess I looked upon it with very
different feelings. The enjoyment was of the most simple and innocent
kind. Families were all together, father and mother, brothers and
sisters, while little children ran about at play. I have rarely looked
on a prettier scene, and although I had no part nor lot in it,
although I was a stranger there, and walked among these crowds alone,
still it did my heart good to see that there was so much happiness in
this sad and weary world.
From Hamburg we came to Berlin, where the same features were
reproduced on a larger scale. As we drove through the streets at ten
o'clock at night we passed a large public garden, brilliantly lighted
up, and thronged with people, from which came the sound of music, and
were told that it was one of the most fashionable resorts of the
capital; and so the next evening--after a day at Potsdam, where we
were wearied with sight-seeing--we took our rest here. Imagine a vast
enclosure lighted up with hundreds of gas-jets, and thronged with
thousands of people, with _three_ bands of music to relieve each
other. There were hundreds of little tables, each with its group
around it, all chatting with the utmost animation.
The next day we drove to Charlottenburg, to visit the old palaces and
the exquisite mausoleum of the beautiful Queen Louise, and on our
return stopped to take our dinner at the Flora--an enclosure of
several acres, laid out like a botanical garden. A large conservatory,
called the Palm Garden, keeps under cover such rare plants and trees
as would not grow in the cold climate; and here one is in a tropical
scene. This answers the purpose of a Winter Garden, as great banks of
flowers and of rare plants are in full bloom all the winter long; and
here the rank and fashion of Berlin can gather in winter, and with the
air filled with the perfume of flowers, forget the scene without--the
naked trees and bitter winds and drifting snows--while listening to
musical concerts given in an immense hall, capable of holding several
thousand people. These are the festivities of winter. But now, as it
is midsummer, the people prefer to be out of doors; and here, seated
among the rest, we take our dinner, entertained (as sovereigns are
wont to entertain their royal guests at State dinners) with a band of
music in the intervals of the feast, which gives a new zest, a touch
of Oriental luxury, to our very simple repast.
At Dresden we were at the Hotel Bellevue, which is close to the Elbe,
and there was a public garden on the bank of the river, right under
our windows. Every evening we sat on the terrace attached to the
hotel, and heard the music, and watched the pleasure boats darting up
and down the river.
But of all the cities of Germany, the one where this out-door life is
carried to the greatest perfection, is here in Vienna. We arrived when
the weather was very hot. For the first time this summer in Europe we
were really oppressed with the heat. The sun blazed fiercely, and as
we drove about the city seeing sights, we felt that we were martyrs
suffering in a good cause. We were told that the heat was very
unusual. The only relief and restoration after such days was an
evening ride. So as the sun was setting we took a carriage and made
the circuit of the Ring-strasse, the boulevards laid out on the site
of the old walls, ending with the Prater, that immense park, where two
years ago the Great Exposition was held, and where the buildings still
stand. This is the place of concourse of the Viennese on gala days,
when the Emperor turns out, and all the Austrian and Hungarian
nobility, with their splendid equipages (the Hungarians have an
Oriental fondness for gilded trappings), making a sight which is said
to be more dazzling than can be seen even in the Hyde Park of London,
or the Bois de Boulogne at Paris. Just now, of course, all this
fashionable element has fled the city, and is enjoying life at the
German watering places. But as there are still left seven or eight
hundred thousand people, they must find some way to bear the heats of
summer; and so they flock to the Prater. The trees are all ablaze with
light; half a dozen bands of music are in full blast, and "all the
world is gay." It is truly "a midsummer night's dream." I was
especially attracted to a concert garden where the band, a very large
one, was composed of women. To be sure there were half a dozen men
sprinkled among the performers, but they seemed to have subordinate
parts--only blowing away at the wind instruments--while all the
stringed instruments were played by delicate female hands. It was
quite pretty to see how deftly they held the violins, and what sweet
music they wrung from the strings. Two or three young maidens stood
beside the bass-viols, which were taller than themselves, and a trim
figure, that might have been that of a French _vivandiere_, beat the
drum. The conductor was of course a woman, and marshalled her forces
with wonderful spirit. I don't know whether the music was very fine or
not (for I am not a judge in such matters), but I applauded
vigorously, because I liked the independence of the thing, and have
some admiration, if not sympathy, for the spirit of those heroic
reformers, who wish to "put down these men."
But the chief musical glory of Vienna is the Volksgarten, where
Strauss's famous band plays, and there we spent our last night in
Vienna. It is an enclosure near the Palace, and the grounds belong to
the Emperor, who gives the use of them (so we were told) to the son of
his old nurse, who devotes them to the purpose of a public garden,
and to musical concerts. Besides Strauss's band, there was a military
band, which played alternately. As we entered it was executing an air
which my companions recognized as from "William Tell," and they
pointed out to me the beautiful passages--those which imitated the
Alpine horns, etc. Then Strauss came to the front--not Johann (who has
become so famous that the Emperor has appropriated him to himself, so
that he can now play only for the royal family and their guests), but
his brother, Edward. He is a little man, whose body seems to be set on
springs, and to be put in motion by music. While leading the
orchestra, of some forty performers, he was as one inspired--he fairly
danced with excitement; it seemed as if he hardly touched the earth,
but floated in air, his body swaying hither and thither to the sound
of music. When he had finished, the military band responded, and so it
continued the whole evening.
The garden was illuminated not only with gas lamps, but with other
lights not set down in the programme. The day had been terribly hot,
and as we drove to the garden, dark masses of cloud were gathering,
and soon the rain began to come down in earnest. The people who were
sitting under the trees took refuge in the shelter of the large hall;
and there, while incessant flashes of lightning lighted up the garden
without, the martial airs of the military band were answered by the
roll of the thunder. This was an unexpected accompaniment to the
music, but it was very grateful, as it at once cleared and cooled the
air, and gave promise of a pleasant day for travelling on the morrow.
I might describe many similar scenes, though less brilliant, in every
German city, but these are enough to give a picture of the open-air
life and recreations of the German people. And now for the moral of
the tale. What is the influence of this kind of life--is it good or
bad? What lesson does it teach to us Americans? Does it furnish an
example to imitate, or a warning to avoid? Perhaps something of both.
Certainly it is a good thing that it leads the people to spend some
hours of every day in the open air. During hours of business they are
in their offices or their shops, and they need a change; and
_anything_ which tempts them out of doors is a physical benefit; it
quiets their nerves, and cools their blood, and prepares them for
refreshing sleep. So far it is good. Every open space in the midst of
a great population is so much breathing space; the parks of a city are
rightly called its _lungs_; and it is a good thing if once a day all
classes, rich and poor, young and old, can get a long draught of
fresh, pure air, as if they were in the country.
Next to the pleasure of sitting in the open air, the attraction of
these places is the _music_. The Germans are a music-loving people.
Luther was an enthusiast for music, and called any man a _fool_, a
dull, heavy dolt, whose blood was not stirred by martial airs or
softer melodies. In this he is a good type of the German people. This
taste is at once cultivated and gratified by what they hear at these
public resorts. I cannot speak with authority on such matters, but my
companions identified almost every air that was played as from some
celebrated piece of music, the work of some great master, all of whom
are familiar in Germany from Mozart to Mendelssohn. The constant
repetition of such music by competent and trained bands, cannot but
have a great effect upon the musical education of the people.
And this delightful recreation is furnished very _cheaply_. In New
York to hear Nilsson, opera-goers pay three or four dollars. But here
admission to the Volksgarten, the most fashionable resort in Vienna,
is but a florin (about fifty cents); to the Flora, in Berlin, it was
but a mark, which is of the value of an English shilling, or a quarter
of a dollar; while many of the public gardens are _free_, the only
compensation being what is paid for refreshments.
One other feature of this open-air life and recreation has been very
delightful to me--its domestic character. It is not a solitary,
selfish kind of pleasure, as when men go off by themselves to drink or
gamble, or indulge in any kind of dissipation. When men go to these
public gardens, on the contrary, _they take their wives and their
sisters with them_. Often we see a whole family, down to the children,
grouped around one of these tables. They sit there as they would
around their own tea-table at home. The family life is not broken by
this taking of their pleasure in public. On the contrary, it is rather
strengthened; all the family ties are made the closer by sharing their
enjoyments together.
And these pleasures are not only _domestic_, but _democratic_. They
are not for the rich only, but for all classes. Even the poor can
afford the few pence necessary for such an evening, and find in
listening to such music in the open air the cheapest, as well as the
simplest and purest enjoyment.
The _drawbacks_ to these public gardens are two--the smoking and the
beer-drinking. There are hundreds of tables, each with a group around
it, all drinking beer, and the men all smoking. These features I
dislike as much as anybody. I never smoked a cigar in my life, and do
not doubt that it would make me deadly sick. Mr. Spurgeon may say that
he "smokes a cigar to the glory of God"; that as it quiets his nerves
and gives him a sound night's sleep, it is a means of grace to him.
All I can say is, that it is not a means of grace to _me_, and that as
I have been frequently annoyed and almost suffocated by it, I am
afraid it has provoked feelings anything but Christian.
As for the drinking, there is one universal beverage--_beer_. This is
a thin, watery fluid, such as one might make by putting a spoonful of
bitter herbs in a teapot and boiling them. To me it seemed like cold
water spoiled. Yet others argue that it is cold water improved. On
this question I have had many discussions since I came to Germany. The
people take to beer as a thing of course, as if it were the beverage
that nature had provided to assuage their thirst, and when they talk
to you in a friendly way, will caution you especially to beware of
drinking the water of the country! Why they should think this
dangerous, I cannot understand, for surely they do not drink enough of
it to do them any harm. Of course, in passing from country to country,
one needs to use prudence in drinking the water, as in other changes
of diet, but the danger from that source is greatly exaggerated.
Certainly I have drunk of water freely everywhere in Europe, without
any injury. Yet an American physician, who certainly has no national
prejudice in favor of beer, gravely argues with me that it is the most
simple, refreshing, and healthful beverage, and points to the physique
of the Germans in proof that it does them no injury. Perhaps used in
moderation, it may not. But certainly no argument will convince me
that drinking it in such quantities as some do--eight, ten, or a dozen
quart mugs a day!--is not injurious. When a man thus _swills_
beer--there is no other word to express it--he seems to me like a pig
at the trough.
But of course I do not mean that the greater number of Germans drink
it in any such quantities, or to a degree that would be considered
excessive, if it is to be drunk _at all_. I was at first shocked to
see men and women with these foaming goblets before them, but I
observed that, instead of drinking them off at a draught as those who
take stronger drinks are wont to do, they let them stand, occasionally
taking a sip, a single glass often lasting the whole evening. Indeed
it seemed as if many ordered a glass of beer on entering a public
garden, rather as a matter of custom, and as a way of paying for the
music. For this they gave a few kreutzers (equal to a few pence), and
for such a trifle had the freedom of the garden, and the privilege of
listening to excellent music.
But if we cannot enter into any eulogium of German beer at least it
has this _negative_ virtue: it does not make people drunk. It is not
like the heavy ales or porters of England. This is a fact of immense
consequence, that the universal beverage of forty millions of people
is not intoxicating. Of course I do not mean to say that it is
impossible for one to have his head swim by taking it in some enormous
quantity. I only give my own observation, which is that I have seen
thousands taking their beer, and never saw one in any degree affected
by it. I give, therefore, the evidence of my senses, when I say that
this beer does not make men drunk, it does not steal away their
brains, or deprive them of reason.
No reader of any intelligence can be so silly as to interpret this
simple statement of a fact as arguing for the introduction of beer
gardens in America. They are coming quite fast enough. [If I were to
have a beer garden, it should be _without the beer_.] But as between
the two, I do say that the beer gardens of Germany are a thousand
times better than the gin shops of London, or even the elegant "sample
rooms" of New York. In the latter men drink chiefly fiery wines, or
whiskey, or brandy, or rum; they drink what makes them beasts--what
sends them reeling through the streets, to carry terror to their
miserable homes; while in Germany men drink what may be very bitter
and bad-tasting stuff, but what does not make one a maniac or a brute.
No man goes home from a beer garden to beat his wife and children,
because he has been made a madman by intoxication. On the contrary, he
has had his wife and children with him; they have all had a breath of
fresh air, and enjoyed a good time together.
Such are the simple pleasures of this simple German people--a people
that love their homes, their wives and children, and whatever they
enjoy wish to enjoy it together.
Now may we not learn something from the habits of a foreign people, as
to how to provide cheap and innocent recreations for our own? Is there
not some way of getting the good without the evil, of having this
open-air life without any evil accompaniments? The question is one of
recreation, _not of amusements_, which is another thing, to be
considered by itself. In these public gardens there are no games of
any kind--not so much as a Punch and Judy, or a hand-organ with a
monkey--nothing but sitting in the open air, enjoying conversation,
and listening to music.
This question of popular recreations, or to put it more broadly, _how
a people shall spend their leisure hours_--hours when they are not at
work nor asleep--is a very serious question, and one closely connected
with public morals. In the life of every man in America, even of the
hard-worked laborer, there are several hours in the day when he is not
bending to his task, and when he is not taking his meals. The work of
the day is over, he has had his supper, but it is not time to go to
bed. From seven to nine o'clock he has a couple of hours of leisure.
What shall he do with them? It may be said he ought to spend them in
reading. No doubt this would be very useful, but perhaps the poor man
is too jaded to fix his mind on a book. What he needs is diversion,
recreation, something that occupies the mind without fatiguing it; and
what so charming as to sit out of doors in the summer time, in the
cool of the evening, and listen to music, not being fixed to silence
as in a concert room, but free to move about, and talk with his
neighbors? If there could be in every large town such a retreat under
the shade of the trees, where tired workmen could come, and bring
their wives and children with them, it would do a great deal to keep
them out of drinking saloons and other places of evil resort.
For want of something of this kind the young men in our cities and in
our country villages seek recreation where they can find it. In
cities, young men of the better class resort to clubs. This club life
has eaten into the domestic life of our American families. The
husband, the son and brother, are never at home. Would it not be
better if they could have some simple recreation which the whole
family could enjoy together? In country villages young men meet at the
tavern, or in the street, for want of a little company. I have seen
them, by twenty or thirty, sitting on a fence in a row, like barnyard
fowls, where, it is to be feared, their conversation is not of the
most refined character. How much better for these young fellows to be
_somewhere_ where they could be with their mothers and sisters, and
all have a good time together! If they must have something in the way
of refreshment (although I do not see the need of anything; "have they
not their houses to eat and drink in?"), let it be of the simplest
kind--something very _cheap_, for they have no money to waste--and
something which shall at least do them no injury--ices and lemonade,
with plenty of what is better than either for a hot summer evening,
pure, delicious cold water.
I have great confidence in the power of _music_, especially in that
which is popular and universal. Expensive concerts, with celebrated
singers, are the pleasure of the rich. But a village glee-club or
singing-school calls out home talent, and no concert is so like a
country fete as that in which the young folks do their own singing.
With these pictures of German life and manners, and the reflections
they suggest, I leave this subject of Popular Recreations to those who
are older and wiser than I. I know that the subject is a very delicate
one to touch. It is easy to go too far, and to have one's arguments
perverted to abuse. And yet, in spite of all this, I stand up for
recreation as a necessity of life. _Recreation is not dissipation._
Calvin pitching quoits may not seem to us quite as venerable a figure
as Calvin writing his Institutes, or preaching in the Cathedral of
Geneva; and yet he was doing what was just and necessary. The mind
must unbend, and the body too. I believe hundreds of lives are lost
every year in America for want of this timely rest and recreation.
Some traveller has said that America is the country in which there is
less suffering, and less enjoyment, than in any other country in the
world. I am afraid there is some truth in this. Certainly we have not
cultivated the art of enjoying ourselves. We are too busy. We are all
the time toiling to accumulate, and give ourselves little time to
enjoy. And when we do undertake it, it is a very solemn business with
us. Nothing is more dreary than the efforts of some of our good people
to enjoy themselves. They do not know how, and make an awkward shift
of it. They put it off to a future year, when their work shall be all
done, and they will go to Europe, and do up their travelling as a big
job. Thus their very pleasures are forced, artificial, and expensive.
And little pleasure they get after all! Many of these people we have
met wandering about Europe, forlorn and wretched creatures, exiles
from their own country, yet not at home in any other. They have not
learned the art, which the Germans might teach them, of simple
pleasures, and of _enjoying a little every day_. This American habit
of work without rest, is a wretched economy of life, which can be
justified neither by reason nor religion. There is no piety in such
self-sacrifice as this, since it is for no good object, but only from
a selfish and miserly greed for gain. Men were not made to be mere
drudges or slaves. Hard work, _duly intermixed with rest and
recreation_, is the best experience for every one of us, and the true
means by which we can best fulfil our duty to God and to man.
Religion has received a great injury when it has been identified with
asceticism and gloom. If there is any class of men who are my special
aversion, it is those moping, melancholy owls, who sit on the tree of
life, and frown on every innocent human joy. Sorrow I can understand
(for I have tasted of its bitter cup), and grief of every kind,
penitence for wrong, and deep religious emotion; but what I cannot
understand, nor sympathize with, is that sour, sullen, morose temper,
which looks sternly even on the sports of children, and would hush
their prattle and glee. Such a system of repression is false in
philosophy, and false in morals. It is bad intellectually. Never was a
truer saying than that in the old lines:
All work and no play
Makes Jack a dull boy.
And it is equally bad for the moral nature. Fathers and mothers, you
must make your children happy, if you would make them good. You must
surround them with an atmosphere of affection and enjoyment, if you
would teach them to love you, and to love GOD. It is when held close
in their mothers' arms, with tender eyes bent over them, that children
first get some faint idea of that Infinite Love, of which maternal
fondness is but the faint reflection. How wisely has Cowper, that
delicate and tender moralist, expressed the proper wish of children:
With books, or work, or healthful play,
May my first years be passed,
That I may give for every day
A good account at last.
Such a happy childhood is the best nursery for a brave and noble
manhood.
I write on this subject very seriously, for I know of few things more
closely connected with public morals. I do not argue in favor of
recreation because seeking any indulgence for myself. I have been as a
stranger in all these scenes, and never felt soberer or sadder in my
life than when listening for hours to music. But what concerns one
only, matters little; but what concerns the public good, matters a
great deal. And I give my opinion, as the result of much observation,
that any recreation which promotes innocent enjoyment, which is
physically healthy and morally pure, which keeps families together,
and thus unites them by the tie of common pleasures (a tie only less
strong than that of common sorrow), is a social influence that is
friendly to virtue, and to all which we most love and cherish, and on
the whole one of the cleanest and wholesomest things in this wicked
world.
Often in my dreams I think of that better time which is coming, when
even pleasure shall be sanctified; when no human joy shall be cursed
by being mixed with sin and followed by remorse; when all our
happiness shall be pure and innocent, such as God can smile upon, and
such as leaves no sting behind. That will be a happy world, indeed,
when mutual love shall bless all human intercourse:
Then shall wars and tumults cease,
Then be banished grief and pain;
Righteousness, and joy, and peace,
Undisturbed, shall ever reign.