“Monsieur, prenez la poste et retournez en Flandre.”
Never was Parisian at Potsdam more thoroughly _ennuyé_ than I was
during this voyage of two days. It was near night when I was roused from
slumber by the boat’s arrival in Cologne. I had been dreaming of
all sorts of things and people,--visions of mulled wine and Mozart,
beefsteaks and Beethoven, flitted through my mind in all the mazes of
mad confusion; and with the valorous resolution of realising at least
one part of my musings in the shape of a hot supper and a flask of
Nierensteiner, I went up on deck, when my friend came to meet me with
the disastrous intelligence that there was not an unoccupied room or
bed in the town. The good supper, the Nierensteiner, and the soft bed on
which I had rolled by anticipation, faded like the baseless fabric of a
vision.
However, we set out upon a voyage of discovery, accompanied by a little
army of baggage porters and lackeys, one word of whose language we did
not understand, but who did not on that account cease to hurl at our
devoted heads every barbarous guttural of their macadamising tongue.
In this manner we made the tour of the entire town, and I was concluding
a most affecting appeal to the sympathies of the vinegar-faced
landlady of the Hôtel d’Hollande, which I already perceived would prove
unsuccessful, when a German merchant with whom we had travelled from
Rotterdam made his appearance, and by his kind interference we were
admitted. Having realised our intentions with respect to supper,
fatigued and worn out by our indefatigable exertions, we wrapped our
travelling cloaks around us and slept soundly till morning.
As we had arrived one day before the Festival, we had full time to see
the town. It was a mass of dark, narrow, ill-paved streets, with high
gloomy-looking houses, each story projecting beyond the one beneath, and
thus scarcely admitting the light of the blue heavens.
The Cathedral, however, is one of the most beautiful specimens of the
florid Gothic remaining in Europe, and would, had it been completed,
have eclipsed the more celebrated Cathedral of Strasbourg: the great
entrance presents the richest instance of the laboured tracery of
this school of architecture I have ever witnessed. The structure was
originally designed to be built in the shape of a cross, but two limbs
were all that were finished. The exterior is divided into a number of
small chapelries, each of which boasts its patron saint, whose bones are
exhibited in a glass-case to the admiration of the devotee.
Amongst the many relics preserved here, I well recollect with what pride
the venerable sexton pointed out to me the skulls of Die Heilige drei
Könige--by this meant the Magi, whom they call the Three Holy Kings, one
of whom being an African, his skull had been most appropriately painted
black.
In the middle of the great aisle stands a large misshapen block of
marble, about two feet in height, and from three to four feet in length:
this could never have formed any portion of the building, and stands,
like our Irish Round Towers, a stumbling-block to the antiquarian.
The legend--I wish we could account for our Round Towers so
reasonably--says that the devil had long endeavoured to terrify the
workmen from the building, and had practised all the devices approved of
on such occasions to prevent its completion; but being foiled in all, in
a fit of spleen he hurled this rock through the roof of the Cathedral,
and neither man nor the art of man can avail to remove it from its
deep-rooted foundation. Be this as it may, there stands the rock, and
OEhlenschlager, the Danish poet, has alluded to it in his spirited
tale of “Peter Bolt” (translated into ‘Blackwood’s Magazine’ without
acknowledgment).
We rose early on the following morning, and profiting by the advice
of that wisest of travellers, Captain Dalgetty, victualled for an
indefinite period. And here let me do justice to the character of that
worthy woman whom I in my profligacy called vinegar-faced: as an artiste
she was altogether unexceptionable.
Eaten bread is soon forgotten, saith the proverb. And if the passage is
to be taken literally, so should it, say I. At the same time, I defy
any man who has a heart to feel and a palate to taste ever to lose the
recollection of a well-dressed maintenon cutlet or a chicken salad. No;
it will recur to him _post totidem annos_, and bring once more “the soft
tremulous dew” upon his lips.
At last we set out for the Festival, and although anticipating a crowd,
yet we never expected to have found, as we did, every avenue blocked
up by the people. Notwithstanding the immense number and the natural
anxiety of all to press on and secure good places, nothing could exceed
the good order and decorum: it was a perfect contradiction to Dean
Swift’s adage that a crowd is a mob even if it is composed of bishops.
Into this dense mass we get gradually wedged, little regretting the
delay which afforded so good an opportunity of looking about where there
was so much to interest and amuse us.
The Cologne belles, with their tight-laced bodices of velvet, their
black eyes, and still blacker hair, rarely covered by anything but a
silk handkerchief drawn tightly over it, formed a strong contrast to
the fair-complexioned, blue-eyed daughters of Holland, whose demure and
almost _minauderie_ demeanour was curiously contrasted with the air of
coquetry which the others have borrowed from their French neighbours;
while the fat happy-looking burgher from Antwerp stood in formidable
relief to the tall gaunt Prussian, who was vainly endeavouring to mould
his cast-iron features into an expression of softness to salute some
fair acquaintance.
My attention to the various coteries around was drawn off by a slight
motion in the crowd, indicating that those nearest the door had gained
admittance, and the swell of music borne upon the wind, mingled with
the din of the multitude, forcibly reminded me of the far-off roar of
Niagara when first I heard it booming in the distance.
A change came o’er the spirit of my dream, and, deeply engrossed by
the various associations thus unexpectedly conjured up, I found myself,
without being aware of it, at the entrance of the Cathedral.
Never shall I forget the effect of that moment. The vast building lay
before me crowded with human beings to the roof, while the loud bray
of the organ mingling its artillery of sound with the deafening peal of
several hundred instruments was tremendous.
When I had sufficiently recovered from my first sensations of ecstasy, I
looked towards the choir, hoping to see Ries or Spohr, both of whom were
present, but I could not recognise them in the distance.
I had a very fine description of the Festival and the music--which
consisted of selections from Handel and Beethoven--ready written, but
I really feel that any attempt to convey the idea of this splendid
spectacle, or my feelings on witnessing it, is altogether vain. In fact,
the sensation of excitement with which I looked and listened was too
great to permit of any permanent impression, capable of description,
remaining in my mind. And I felt on coming out as if years had rolled
over my head since the morning; for we measure time past not so much by
the pleasurable or painful feelings which we have experienced during
its lapse, as by the mere number and variety of sensations that have
imprinted themselves on the sensorium....
There was little inducement to remain in Cologne when the Festival was
over, so that having secured places in the steamboat for Bonn, we took
our last look at the Cathedral by moonlight and returned to our beds.
Next morning I was awoke by the most diabolical war-whoop that can be
conceived, and on looking out from my window I descried the cause of my
alarm to be a cow’s horn, blown by a person who might, from the length
and breadth of his blast, have been one of the performers at Jericho. I
found afterwards that the horn-blower was an emissary from the steamboat
come to inform us that she was ready to depart, and would be under weigh
in a few moments. After dressing rapidly, we soon found ourselves seated
upon the deck: the air was calm--not a breeze ruffled the broad surface
of the Rhine: it lay like a mirror before us, reflecting the tapered
minarets and richly ornamented dome of the Cathedral, which glistened
under the morning dew, like a vast globe of gold.
From the moment we left Cologne the scenery began to improve, and near
Bonn it became really beautiful. The Rhine, from the bold and frequent
winding course it takes, presents the appearance of a succession of
small lakes. It is bounded by lofty vine-clad mountains bristling with
tower and keep, while below are seen opening glens through which the
small streams rush on, bearing their tribute to the father of rivers.
The villages have generally a most picturesque effect as they rise
street above street upon the steep mountain-sides, their white walls
scarcely visible amid the trellised vines. And now as we passed along
we could plainly hear the songs of the peasants breaking on the soft
stillness of the summer morning.
After a four hours’ delightful sail we made Bonn in time for breakfast.
The town itself has nothing remarkable except its situation in the
valley of the Rhine and its being the seat of the second in rank amongst
the Prussian universities.*
* It was established on the model of that of Berlin so
lately as 1818, and, except the University of Munich, is the
most modern of Germany. As early as 1777 we find an Academy
existed here, and in 1786 this became a chartered
University, of which, however, at the conclusion of the
French Revolutionary War no trace was left The number of
students, about one thousand, and the names of the two
Schlegels, Niebuhr, and Walther (one of the first anatomists
of Europe), attest sufficiently its present popularity.
The Cabinet of Natural History at Popplesdorf is justly
celebrated, and the collection of petrifactions is well
known to the scientific world by the valuable work of
Professor von Goldfuss [‘Petrefacta Musei Univ. Bonnencrio,’
&c) The library contains about 60,000 volumes, and includes
a most remarkable cabinet of diplomatic seals and records.
The Botanical Garden, which occupies upwards of nineteen
acres, is considered one of the finest in Germany.
We spent the entire of the first three days visiting collections,
museums, libraries, &c.; and although Professor Goldfuss, our cicerone,
is a very worthy and well-informed gentleman, yet I have no mind to make
you more intimately acquainted with him, so that I shall at once invite
you to sip your coffee with us in the garden of the University. Here all
is gaiety, life, and animation, the military are seen mixing with the
townsfolk, and no longer is there any distance kept up between professor
and student. The garden was in olden times the pleasure-ground of
a palace, once the residence of the Churfurst of Cologne, and still
preserves much of its ancient beauty. The trees are for the most part
of foreign origin, and formed into long shady avenues or dark sunless
bowers, in each of which might be seen some happy family party enjoying
their coffee, the ladies assiduously occupied in knitting and the men no
less assiduously occupied in smoking. Occasionally the loud chorus of a
Freischtitz air told that the Burschen were holding their revels not
far off, while the professors themselves, the learned expounders of dark
metaphysics and eke the diggers of Greek roots, did not scruple to join
in the gaiety of the scene, and might now be observed whisking along in
the rapid revolutions of a German waltz. By the bye, let me warn any of
my male readers to beware how he approaches a German dancing party if
he be not perfectly _au fait_ at waltzing. It is quite sufficient to
be seen looking on to cause some dancer to offer you his partner for a
_turn_: this is a piece of politeness constantly extended to foreigners,
and is called _hospitiren_; but indeed every spectator seems to expect
a similar attention, and at each moment some tall moustached figure is
seen unbuckling his _schlager_, throwing his cap upon the ground, and in
a moment he is lost among the dancers.
It was already far advanced in the night and the moon was shining
brightly upon the happy scene ere we turned our steps homewards, deeply
regretting our incapacity either to speak German or to waltz.
The following day the Drachenfels was the scene of a rural _fête_, and
thither we proceeded, and as the distance is only three English miles
we went on foot. The road lay through a succession of vineyards sloping
gently towards the Rhine, which is here extremely rapid. A sudden
winding of the river brought us in sight of the mountain from base to
summit. The Rhine here runs between the Godesberg on the one side and
the Drachenfels on the other. The latter rises to the height of fifteen
hundred feet above the stream, perpendicular as a wall, its summit
crowned by a ruined tower. The sides are wooded with large white
oak-trees through which the road winds to the top in a serpentine
manner,--and thus as you ascend some new and altogether different
prospect constantly meets the eye: at one moment you look out upon the
dark forests and deep glens of the Sieben-gebirge, at another you see
the river winding for miles beneath you through plenteous vineyards and
valleys teeming with fertility; and far in the distance the tall spire
of Cologne, rising amid its little forests of pinnacles, is still
perceptible.
As we approached the picturesque effect was further heightened when
through the intervals between the trees on the mountain-side some party
might be observed slowly toiling their way upwards, the ladies mounted
upon mules whose gay scarlet trappings gave all the appearance of some
gorgeous pageant: and ever and anon the deep tones of the students
joining in Schiller’s Bobber song, or the still more beautiful
Rhein-am-Rhein, completed the illusion, and made this one of the most
delightful scenes I ever observed.
We spent the entire day upon the mountains; and as we descended we
observed a small figure standing motionless upon a rock at some distance
beneath us. On coming nearer we discovered this to be a little girl
of eight or ten years old, who, seeing us coming, had waited there
patiently to present us with a garland of vine-leaves and Rhine lilies
ere we crossed the river, as a charm against every possible mishap.
On our return we made the acquaintance of a professor whose name I
no longer recollect--but he was a most agreeable and entertaining
companion, and he gave us a clear insight into the policy of the
University. When speaking of the custom of duelling, he surprised us
by the admission that such practices were winked at by the heads of
colleges, hoping, as he said, that the students being thus employed and
having their minds occupied about their own domestic broils, would
have less both of leisure and inclination to join in the quarrels and
disagreements of their princes and rulers: in the same manner and with
the same intention as “the Powers that were” are said to have encouraged
the disturbances and riots at fairs in Ireland, hoping that the more
broken heads the fewer burnings of farms or insurrectionary plots. And
now that I am on the subject of Irish illustration, let me give you a
better one.
A friend of mine once on his way from Dublin to Dunleary* had the
misfortune to find himself on a car drawn by an animal so wretched as to
excite his deepest compassion, for in addition to a large surface of the
back being perfectly denuded of skin and flesh, one end of a stick had
been twisted on the creature’s ear, the other end firmly fastened to
the harness so as to keep the animal’s head in the position of certain
would-be dandies who deem it indispensable to walk _tête-à-l’air_. Not
comprehending the aim of such apparently wanton cruelty, my friend asked
the driver for an explanation of the ear torture. The fellow turned
towards him with a look of half compassion for his ignorance struggling
with the low waggery of his caste. “Troth an’ yer honour,” said he,
“that’s to divart his attinshion from the _raw_ on his back.”
* Dunleary changed its name to Kingstown in 1821 in honour
of George the Fourth’s visit.--E. D.
And I really doubt not but that by “divarting their attinshion” the
rulers of German universities have the best chance of success in
managing the rude and indomitable spirits.
After a week spent in rambling through the glens and mountains of their
delightful country, we set out for Andernach on our way to Coblentz.
Here we arrived late in the evening, and went supperless to bed, as the
Duke of Clarence, who had just arrived, had ordered everything eatable
in the town for himself and his suite. On learning this, we had the good
fortune to meet with an English family whom we had previously seen in
Holland, and we journeyed together now like old acquaintances. I shall
not attempt to delay you by any description of the scenery as we voyaged
up the Rhine. The prospect continues to be beautiful until you approach
Mayence; then the country becomes open, the mountains degenerate into
sloping hills, and the course of the river is less winding.
At last we arrived in Frankfort, but there was little inducement to
remain here, as we had no introduction to the Baron von Rothschild, the
greatest entertainer and _bon vivant_ in Europe. We merely waited to
hear the opera (in which we were much disappointed), and set off for
Cassel. I pass over all account of Daneker’s statue of Ariadne and the
still greater lion, Professor Soemmering, for every one who has made the
_petit_ tour has described both; and I’ll wager my dukedom there is not
a young lady’s album in Great Britain which does not contain some lines
“On seeing” the beautiful figure I allude to. Ere I depart, however, let
me mention a short but striking inscription which I read on the sun-dial
in the town--“Sol me--vos--umbra regit.” You may conceive that the
German “schnell wagen” is admirably translated by the English words
“snail waggon,” when I tell you that we were three days travelling from
Frankfort to Cassel, a distance of about 150 English miles.
A German diligence reminds one wonderfully of some huge old family
mansion to which various unseemly and incongruous additions have been
made, according to the fancy or necessity of its successive proprietors
for ages. Conceive a large, black, heavy-looking coach to the front of
which is placed a chariot, a covered car to the back, and on the roof
a cabriolet; and imagine this, in addition to twelve phlegmatic Germans
(who deem it indispensable to drink “schnaps” or “gutes bier” whenever
there is a house to sell either), loaded with as much luggage as an
ordinary canal boat in the country could carry--the whole leviathan
drawn by nine wretched-looking ponies scarcely able to drag along their
preposterously long tails,--and you will readily believe that we did not
fly.
When we reached Cassel it was night, and the streets were in perfect
darkness--not a lamp shone out,--and we saw absolutely nothing till we
drew up at the door of Der Kônig von Preussen. On asking the following
day the reason of the remarkable want of illumination, we were informed
that when the almanac announced moonlight, it was not customary to light
the lamps of the town,*--and the moon not being properly aware of
this dependence upon her, was not a whit more punctual in Cassel than
elsewhere.
* It is strange that Lever considered this a remarkable
phenomenon. The economical custom he refers to was not
uncommon in many provincial towns--in Ireland at any rate--
up to a very recent date.--E. D.
Cassel is the most beautifully built and most beautifully situated town
that I know of. Besides having a very excellent Opera, it boasts of one
of the best museums in Germany, and of a very respectable Gallery of
Painting and Sculpture. These form two sides of a great open _platz_ or
square; the Palace fills up the third side, and the fourth has merely
a large iron railing, and affords a most magnificent view of a
richly-wooded landscape, the background formed by the lofty mountains
of Thuringia. In the middle of this railing a large gateway opens upon
a broad flight of stone steps which lead down to a handsomely planted
park. Following the windings of a silvery river which flows between
banks adorned with blossoming shrubs and flowers, the scene brought to
my mind the beautiful lines of Shelley:--
“And on that stream whose inconstant bosom
Was plank’t under boughs of embowering blossom,
With golden and green light slanting through
Their heaven of many a tangled hue,
Broad water-lilies lay tremulously,
And starry river-buds glimmered by,
And around them the soft stream did glide and dance
With a motion of sweet sound and radiance.”
At last we came in sight of Wilhelmshöhe, the country palace of the
Electors of Hesse; but here, alas! the old Dutch taste in gardening
prevails,--
“Grove nods to grove,
Each alley has its brother.”
Wherever you turn your eyes, some deity in lead or marble meets you,
who, from its agile attitude, seems in the act of taking flight at your
approach. But the great wonder of the place is the famous _jet d’eau_,
which is said to be 200 feet in height. To see this all Cassel assembles
every Sunday on foot or in carriages; but though the effect of the
water rushing over the rocks and forming hundreds of small cataracts is
undoubtedly fine, yet the illusion is destroyed by arriving before the
commencement of the exhibition, and seeing Hessian Cockneys watching
some dry canal with patient anxiety and filling the empty vase of some
basking Amphion. However, the scene was a gay one; and the splendid
carriage of the Elector, who sat, in all the glory of a rich uniform and
with moustaches _à la Prusse_, smoking most cavalierly, beside a lady
(_not_ his Duchess), was at once characteristic of the country and the
individual.
After stopping in Cassel for three days, which passed most agreeably, we
took flight, and at the end of a forty miles’ excursion--
“In our stage-coach waggon trotting in,
We made our entrance to the U-
Nivewity of Gottingen.”
It was a fine night in the month of June, and the moon was shining
brightly upon the towers and steeples of Gottingen, as the heavy
diligence, thundering over the pavement of the main street, drew up
within the _port-cocher_ of Der Hof von England. We alighted, and
entered a long low room in which about forty young men, evidently
students, were seated at supper. At the head of the table sat the host
himself, doling out soup from a vessel the proportions of which had
well-nigh led me to suspect that I had mistaken the University town, and
was actually in company with the Heidelberg Tun.
We soon retired to our beds, but arose early in the morning and found,
to our surprise, that even then--it was but six o’clock--the
streets were crowded with students hastening to and from the various
lecture-rooms, their long braided frock-coats and moustaches giving them
a military air strangely at variance with their spectacled noses and
lounging gait.
In three days I was enrolled a student of Gottingen, which, besides
conferring on me the undoubted advantages of one of the finest libraries
in Europe, with admission to various lectures, collections, botanical
gardens, &c., also bestowed upon me the more equivocal honour of being
eligible to fight a duel, and drink _bruderschaft_ in the beer-cellar
of the University. I now thought it time to avail myself of some of the
numerous introductory letters with which I had paved my trunk on leaving
home; and accordingly, having accoutred myself in a suit of sables, and
one hand armed with a large canister of Lundy-Foot (which I had brought
with me as a propitiatory offering to the greatest nose in Europe) and
my credentials in the other, I took my way through the town.
After wandering for some time my guide brought me at length to the door
of a long, low, white house, with nothing remarkable about it save the
silence and apparent desolation which reigned around, for it stood in
the most unfrequented part of the city. On arriving I inquired for the
professor, and was told by the servant that he was above-stairs in his
cabinet; and having given me this piece of information she immediately
returned into a little den off the hall from which she had emerged.
I ascended the stairs, and found little difficulty in discovering the
apartment, as all the doors were labelled with appropriate titles.
_Herein!_ shouted in a voice of thunder, was the answer from within
to my still small knock at the door. I entered, and beheld a small and
venerable-looking old man, with a quantity of white hair floating in
careless profusion upon his neck and shoulders. His head, which was
almost preternaturally large, was surmounted by a green velvet cap
placed a little on one side: he was grotesquely enveloped in a species
of fur cloak with large sleeves, and altogether presented the most
extraordinary figure I had ever seen.
I was again roused by the sound of his voice interrogating me in no less
than six languages (ere I found my tongue) as to my name, country, &c,
for he at once perceived that I was a foreigner. I presented my letter
and present, with which he seemed highly pleased, and informed me that
his _guter freund_, Lord Talbot, always brought him Irish snuff; and
then welcoming me to Gottingen, he seized my hand, pressed me down on a
seat, and began talking concerning my travels, plans, probable stay at
the University, &c. I now felt myself relieved from the awe with which
I had at first contemplated the interview, and looked around with a
mingled feeling of admiration and surprise at the odd _mélange_ of
curiosities in natural history, skulls, drawings, medals, and even toys,
which filled the cabinet. But indeed the worthy professor was by far the
greatest lion of the collection.
I observed that many of our newest English publications lay upon his
table; and on my remarking it, he looked for a few minutes among them,
and then drew out a small pamphlet, which he placed in my hand, saying
at the same time that he had derived much pleasure from the perusal of
it. I must confess it was with no small gratification I found it to be a
description of the Fossil Elk (now in the Dublin Society House) written
by Mr Hart of Dublin. He made many inquiries concerning the author,
and expressed his thanks for the delicate attention shown him in the
presentation of the work. He then spoke of the London University, the
plan of which lay before him; and on standing up to take my leave, I
asked him whether the Gall and Spurzheim theories were to comprise part
of my university creed and course of study. To which he answered, “No;
but if you will wait till October we are to have a new system broached,”
and then, chuckling at this hit at the fondness of his countrymen for
speculating, he pressed me to revisit him soon and see his collection.*
* Blumenbach is sketched more fully in ‘Arthur O’Leary.’
--E. D.
On my way homeward I was met by a student with whom I had become
acquainted the day before at the _table d’hôte_. He invited me to drink
coffee with him in one of the gardens outside the town, and on our way
thither he told me that I should see a specimen of the Burschen life,
as a duel was to be fought at the place to which we were then fast
approaching. I could not conceive from the tone of my companion whether
this was merely a piece of badinage on his part or not, for he informed
me with the greatest indifference that the cause of the meeting was
the refusal of one of the parties to pledge the other in beer, the
invitation being given at a time when the offender was busy drinking
his coffee. Such a reason for mortal conflict never entered even into my
Irish ideas of insult. We had by this time arrived at the garden, which,
crowded with swaggering savage-looking students, most of them with their
shirt-collars open and their long hair hanging upon their shoulders,
was indeed deserving of a better fate than the code of the _Comment_ had
allowed to it. It was a tract of something more than an acre in extent,
tastefully planted with flowering-shrubs and evergreens, and crossed by
“many a path of lawn and moss”; and in a sequestered corner, shaded
by one large chestnut-tree, stood the monument of Burger, the sweetest
lyric poet in any language, not even excepting our own Anacreon, Moore.
I was aroused from my silent admiration of the weeping figure which
bends so mournfully over the simple urn of the peaceful dead by a voice
near me; and on turning around I beheld a tall athletic figure, denuded
of coat and waistcoat, busily engaged polishing his broadsword. At
this moment my friend arrived to inform me that there was no time to
be lost,--we should scarcely get places, the duel having excited a more
than usual degree of interest from the fact that the combatants had a
great reputation as swordsmen.
We ascended a steep narrow stair which led into a large well-lighted
room, but so full of figures, flourishing swords, and meerschaums, that
some minutes elapsed before I could comprehend the scene before me.
A space had been left in the middle of this chaotic assemblage. At a
signal given the spectators all fell back to the walls, and at this
moment two young men, wearing large leathern guards upon their breasts
and arms, entered and took their places opposite each other. They
crossed their swords, and I could scarcely breathe, anticipating
the conflict; but I soon discovered that they were only the seconds
measuring the distance. This done, their places were taken by the
principals, who, stretching out their arms until their swords crossed,
were placed in the proper positions by their respective seconds.
The umpire, or, to use the Burschen phrase, the Impartial, then came
forward, and having examined the weapons, and finding all fair, gave the
word “Streich ein,” which was the signal for the insulted to make the
first blow. With the rapidity of lightning his arm descended, and
when approaching the shoulder of his antagonist he made a feint, and,
carrying his point round, cut with the full force of a flowing stroke
deep into the armpit of the other, whose hand, already uplifted to
avenge the blow he could not avert, was arrested by the opposite second,
it being _contre les règles_ to strike while blood is flowing. He was
borne home, and some weeks afterwards I heard that he had left the
University, carrying with him disease for life.
This occurrence took not more time than I have spent in relating it. In
a few minutes the room was cleared, the bystanders were drinking their
coffee and enjoying their meerschaums, scattered through the gardens;
and I returned to my lodgings fully impressed with the necessity of
leaving a relic of my features behind me in Gôttingen.
You will perhaps say that this is an extravagant picture of student
life. It is not: such occurrences are of everyday, and the system which
inculcates these practices is not confined to one university, but with
some slight modifications is found in all The students of Halle and
Heidelberg had their _Comment_ (or Code of Honour) as well as their
brethren of Jena and Gottingen, and it little matters whether the laws
be called Burschenschaft or Landsmanschaft, the principle is the same.
The great fundamental maxim instilled into the mind of every young
man entering upon his university career is the vast superiority that
students enjoy over all classes in the creation, of what rank soever.
The honest citizen of every university town is rudely denominated
Philistine in contradistinction to the chosen few; and to such an extent
is this carried, that no ties of relationship can mitigate the severity
of a law which forbids the student to hold conversation with a burgher.
This necessarily leads to counteraction, and woe be to the unhappy
townsman who refuses aught to his lordly patron. I well recollect an
adventure, the relation of which will set this system in a clearer light
than if I were prosing for hours in the abstract.
I was lolling one evening on my sofa enjoying a volume of Kotzebue
over my coffee, when my door opened and a tall young man entered. His
light-blue frock and long sabre bespoke him a Prussian, no less than the
white stripe upon his cloth cap, which, placed on one side of his
head with true Burschen familiarity, he made no motion to remove. He
immediately addressed me--
“You are an Englishman studying here?”
“Yes.”
“You deal for coffee, et cetera, with Vaust in the Weender Strasse?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, do so no longer.”
This was said not with any menacing air but with the most business-like
composure. He seemed to think he had said enough, but judging from my
look of surprise that I had not clearly comprehended the full force
of the _sorites_ which had led to this conclusion, he added, by way of
explanation,--
“I have lived two years in his house, and on my asking this morning he
refused to lend me fourteen louis d’or.”
Immediately perceiving the drift of this visit, I recovered presence
of mind enough to ask what the consequence would be if I neglected this
injunction.
“You will then fight us all. We are forty-eight in number, and
Prussians. Adieu.”
Having said this with the most provoking nonchalance, he withdrew, and
the door closed after him, leaving me with an unfinished abjuration of
groceries upon my lips.
Ere the following day closed my Prussian friend again visited me to say
that Vaust, having complied with the demand made upon him, was no longer
under ban.
And now that I have shown you the dark side of the picture, let me
assure you that there is a better one. For firm adherence to each other,
for true brotherhood, the German student is above any other I ever met
with; and although the principle of honour is overstrained, yet in many
respects the consequences are good, and the chivalrous feeling thus
inculcated renders him incapable of a mean or unworthy action. There
is in everything they do at this period a mixture of highly wrought
romantic feeling which strangely contrasts with the drudging, plodding
habits which distinguish them in after days.
As I have all along preferred to give instances and facts rather than to
indulge in mere speculation, I shall relate an occurrence which made too
strong an impression on me ever to be forgotten.
I had been about a month in Göttingen, when I was sitting alone one
evening in that species of indolent humour in which we hail a friend’s
approach without possessing energy sufficient to seek for society
abroad, when my friend Eisendaller entered. He resisted all my
entreaties to remain, and briefly informed me that he came to request me
to accompany him the following morning to Meissner, a distance of about
five leagues, where he was to fight a duel. He told me that to avoid
suspicion in town the horses should wait at my door, which was outside
the ramparts, as early as five o’clock. Having thus acquainted me with
the object of his visit, and having cautioned me not to forget that he
would breakfast with me before starting, he wished me good-night and
departed.
I remained awake the greater part of the night conjecturing what might
be the reason for this extraordinary caution, for I well knew that
several duels took place every day within the precincts of the
University without mention being made of them, or any inquiry being
instituted by the prorector or consul.
Towards morning I fell into a kind of disturbed sleep, from which I was
awakened by my friend entering and halloing “Auf, auf! die Sonne sheint
hell” (Up, up! the sun shines bright)--the first line of a well-known
student “catch.”
I rose and dressed myself, and, having breakfasted, we mounted our nags
and set off at a sharp pace to the place of meeting. For the first few
miles not a word was spoken on either side: my companion was apparently
wrapped up in his own thoughts, and I did not wish to intrude upon his
feelings at such a moment. At last he broke silence, and informed me
that the duel was to be fought with pistols, as he and his adversary
had vainly endeavoured to decide this quarrel in several meetings with
swords. The cause of this deadly animosity--for such it must have been
to require a course rarely if ever pursued by a student of resorting to
pistols--he did not clearly explain, but merely gave me to understand
that it originated concerning a relative of his opponent,--a very lovely
girl, whom he had met at the Court of Hanover.
Having given this brief explanation he again relapsed into silence, and
we rode on for miles without a word.
The morning was delightful, the country through which we passed
highly picturesque, and there was an appearance of happy content and
cheerfulness on the faces of the peasants--who all saluted us as they
went forth to their morning labour--that stood in awful contrast to our
feelings, hurrying forward, as we were, on the mission of death.
At length we arrived at Meissner, where several of my friend’s party
were expecting him, and, having stabled our horses, we left the town and
took a narrow path across the fields, which led to a mill about half a
mile off. This was the place of rendezvous. On our way we overtook the
other party, who had all passed the preceding night at Meissner,--and
guess my surprise and horror to find that my friend’s antagonist was one
of my own intimate acquaintances, and the very student who had been the
first to show me any attention on my arriving at Gottingen! He was a
young Prussian named Hanstell, whose mild manners and gentlemanlike
deportment had acquired for him the sobriquet of “der Zahm” (the
Gentle). After saluting each other the parties proceeded to the ground
together. There was little time spent in arranging the preliminaries.
It was agreed, as both were well-known marksmen, to throw dice for
the first fire. The seconds then came forward, and Hanstel’s friends
announced that Eisendaller had won. There was an instantaneous falling
back of all but the two principals, who now took their positions about
fifteen yards from each other. I watched them both closely, and never
did I see men more apparently unmoved than they were at that moment. Not
a muscle of their features betrayed the least emotion or any concern of
the awful situation in which they were placed.
The pistol was handed to Eisendaller with directions to fire before
the lapse of a minute. He immediately levelled it, and remained in the
attitude of covering his antagonist for some seconds; but at length,
finding his hand becoming unsteady, he deliberately lowered his arm
to his side, stiffening and stretching it to its utmost length, and
remaining thus for an instant, he appeared to be summoning resolution
for his deadly purpose. It was a moment of awful suspense. I felt my
heart sicken at the bloodthirsty coolness of the whole proceeding, and
had to turn away my head in disgust. When I again looked round he had
raised his pistol, and was taking a long and steady aim. At length he
fired. The ball whizzed through Hanstel’s hair, and, as it grazed his
cheek, he wheeled half round by an involuntary motion and raised his
hand to feel if there was blood. I was looking anxiously at Eisendaller,
but he still stood firm and motionless as a statue. I thought at one
moment I saw his lip curl, and a half scowl, as if of disappointment and
impatience, cross his features, but in an instant it passed away, and he
was as calm and passionless as before.
It was now Hanstel’s turn. He lost no time in presenting his weapon.
There was a small red spot burning on his cheek that had been grazed
which seemed to bespeak the fiery rage that had taken possession of his
soul, for he felt that his antagonist had done his best to take away his
life. I shuddered to think that I was looking on my friend for the last
time, for from the position in which I stood I could distinctly see that
his heart was covered, and the moment Hanstell pulled the trigger would
be his last.
Maddened with an agonising thrill of horror, I felt an almost
irresistible impulse to rush forward and arrest the arm that was about
to deprive Eisendaller of his life; but while a sense of what was due
to the established customs of society on such occasions restrained me,
I stood breathless with expectation of the fatal flash, Hanstell, to
my amazement, suddenly raising his pistol to a vertical position, fired
straight over his head, flung his weapon into the air, and rushing
forward, threw his arms round Eisendaller, and bursting into tears,
exclaimed, “Mein Brader!”
We were wholly unprepared for such a scene, and although not easily
unmanned, the overwrought feelings of all sought vent in a passion of
tears. We soon left the ground, and, mounting our horses, returned to
Gôttingen.
On our way homeward there was little said. It happened that once, and
only once, I found myself at the side of Hanstell. He conversed with me
for a short time in an undertone, and on my asking him how he had felt
at the moment of his adversary’s missing him, he answered me that it was
then his determined purpose to shoot him, and up to the last moment
this determination remained unaltered, but at the instant of placing his
fingers on the trigger he thought he saw an expression about his face
that reminded him of careless and happier days when they had studied and
played together and had but one heart. “And I felt,” said he, “as if I
were about to become the murderer of my brother. I could have then more
easily turned the pistol against my own breast.” *
I was not long a resident in Gottingen ere I became considerably
enamoured of many of the Burschen institutions. I had already begun
to think that students were a very superior order of people,** that
duelling was an agreeable after-dinner amusement, and that nothing could
be more becoming or appropriate than a black frock-coat braided with a
fur collar even in the month of July.
* Lever introduces the story of this duel into “The
Loiterings of Arthur Cleary.”--E. D.
** One of Lever’s intimates at Gottingen was a young German
count Later the Irish student discovered that his college
chum--he calls him “Fattorini” in one of his letters, and he
referred to him in conversation (according to Dr
Fitzpatrick) as “Morony”--was no other than Louis Napoleon,
the future Emperor of the French.--E. D.
Having made this avowal, you will perhaps readily believe that I was
soon a favourite among my fellow-students; and a circumstance which at
that time added not a little to their goodwill and applause was the
fact of my translating the English song, “The King, God bless him!” into
German verse for a dinner to celebrate the anniversary of Waterloo.
My life now, although somewhat monotonous, was by no means an
uninteresting or tiresome one. The mornings were usually occupied at
lectures, and then I dined, as do all students, at one, after which we
generally adjourned in parties to one another’s lodgings, where we drank
coffee and smoked till about three o’clock. After this we again heard
lectures till we met together at Blumenbach’s in the Botanical Gardens
in the evening, when we listened to the venerable professor explaining
the mysteries of calyx and corolla, some half-dozen young ladies by far
the most attentive of his pupils. The evening was usually concluded by
a drive to Geismar or some other little village five or six miles from
Gottingen, when, having supped on sour milk thickened with brown
bread and brown sugar (a beverage which, notwithstanding my Burschen
prejudices, I must confess neither cheers nor inebriates), we
returned home about eleven. And although I wished much that university
restrictions had not forbade our having a theatre in the town, and
also that professors were relieved from their dread of the students
misbehaving, and would permit us to associate with their daughters (for
I was as completely secluded from the society of ladies as ever St Kevin
was), yet I was happy and content withal.
Such was the even tenor of my way when the news reached us that
a rebellion had broken out among the students of Heidelberg, in
consequence, it was said, of some act of oppression on the part of the
professors. Nothing could exceed the interest excited in Gottingen when
the information arrived. There was but one subject of conversation:
lecture-rooms were deserted, the streets were crowded with groups
of students conversing in conclave on the one subject of paramount
interest; and at last it was unanimously resolved to show the
Heidelbergers our high sense of their praiseworthy firmness by inviting
them to Göttingen, when news arrived that they had already put the
University of Heidelberg in _verschiess_--that is, “in Coventry,”--and
were actually at the moment on their way to us.