A blackened gate, a confused mass of houses, an open square, and the pebbles again, and we are in Holstein, Denmark, in the public square and market place of Altona. Here it is that the Danish state lotteries are drawn, and we might moralise upon that subject, but that we prefer to press onwards to the real village of Altona.
Here through this beautiful avenue of trees; here where the sunshine is broken into patches by the waving foliage; far away from the din of trumpets, huxterers and showmen; here can the sweet air whisper its low song of peace and lull our fervid imaginations into tranquillity. This is no solitude, though all is quiet and in repose. Under the trees and in the road are throngs of loiterers, but there is no rude laughter, no coarse jests; a moving crowd is there, but a quiet and happy one. And now we come upon the venerable church with its low steeple, its time-eaten stone walls, and its humble, grassy, flower-spangled graves.
We see a passer-by calling the attention of his friend to a stone tablet, green and worn with age, and surrounded by a slight railing. Can it be that there is a spirit hovering over that grave whose influence is peace and love? May not some mighty man lie buried there, the once frail tenement of a great mind whose noble thoughts have years ago wakened a besotted world to truths and aspirations hitherto unknown? There is veneration and respect in every countenance that gazes upon that simple stone; a solemn tread in every foot that trenches on its limits. This is the grave of a great poet. A man whose works, though little read in modern times, were once the wonder of his country; and whose very name comes upon the German people in a gush of melody, and a halo of bright thoughts. It is like an old legend breathed through the chords of a harp. This is the grave of Klopstock, the Milton of Germany. We will enter the churchyard, and look for a moment on the unimposing tablet.
The inscription is scarcely legible, but the poet's mother lies also buried here, and some others of his family. Could there be anything more humble, more unobtrusive? No; but there is something about the grave of a great poet that serves to dignify the simplest monument, and shed a lustre round the lowest mound.
We will cross the churchyard to yonder low brick wall which confines it.
There are clusters of rosy, happy children, clambering about its crumbling top; little knots of men too in the road beyond-evidently expecting something. Even this is in keeping with the poet's grave, which should not be sombre and melancholy, like other graves; and what could better embellish and enliven its aspect than young, blushing life clustering around it? We linger awhile among the boisterous children playing on the churchyard wall, and then we hear a confused sound of voices and music in the distance.
"What is this we hear, my friend?" we inquire.
"It is the harvest-home; if you wait you will see the procession."
We turn out upon the high road, and soon come upon the first signs of this Danish festival. An open gravelled space of some extent stretches out before an imposing mansion of modern appearance; a plantation of trees on each side shapes the space into a rude semicircle. This mansion is the manor house, and in front, in the midst of a confused crowd, some dozen young men in gay sylvan costumes are standing in a circle, armed with flails, and vigorously threshing the ground. Jolly, hearty young fellows they are, and a merry chant they raise. One eager thresher in his zeal breaks his flail at the bend, and a shout from the bystanders greets the exploit.
Now they thresh their way from the great house to a hostelry where the remaining portion of the pageant is awaiting their arrival. Let us stand a little on one side and view the procession. The threshers lead the way, singing and plying their flails as they advance, thus effectually clearing the road for the rest. A merry group of other threshers, each with his lass upon his arm, and his flail swung across his shoulder, come tripping after, singing the harvest song and dancing to their own music.
Now a rude wooden car comes lumbering on, and within sits a grave man in old German costume, who from a large sack before him takes handsful of grain, and liberally casts it about him. This is the sower, but the grain is in this instance only chaff. Now follow heavy instruments of husbandry-ploughs and harrows-while rakes, scythes, and reaping-hooks form a picturesque trophy behind them. A shout of laughter greets the next figure in the procession, for it is no other than the jolly god Bacchus. And a hearty, rubicund, big-bellied god he is, and very decent, too, being decorously clad in a brown suit turned up with red, and cut in the fashion of the time of Maximilian I., or thereabouts. A perpetual smile mantles over his broad face, and complacently he pats his huge rotundity of stomach as he rolls from side to side on the barrel astride which he is seated. Is he drunk, or does he only feign? If it be a piece of acting it is decidedly the most natural we ever saw.
Next comes the miller; a lank rascal, with a white frock, a tall, white tasselled nightcap, and a cadaverous, flour-besprinkled face; and he is the reaper, too, it would seem by the scythe he bears in his hand: other threshers close the procession. A happy train it is. God speed them all! A merry time, and many a bounteous harvest!
Let us turn now upon our steps. Once more before the antique church, the reverenced grave; and with a soothed and grateful mind, we will bend our way back to Hamburg, and diving into one of the odorous cellars on the Jungfern Stieg, will delectate ourselves with beefsteaks and fried potatoes, our glass of Baierisches Bier, and perhaps a tiny schnapschen to settle our repast.
CHAPTER III.
MAGNIFICENCE.-AT CHURCH.-THE LAST HEADSMAN.
"Herrlichkeit!" Magnificence! What a name! Ye Paradise-rows, ye Mount-pleasants, what is your pride of appellation to this? In all Belgravia there is not a terrace, place, or square that can match it.
Fancy the question, "Where do you reside?"
"In Magnificence-number forty."
Yet it is a fact, Magnificence is a street in Hamburg. I have lived in Magnificence.
The Herrlichkeit, like many other places of imposing title, loses considerably upon a close acquaintance. You approach it from the waterside through a rugged way, blessed with the euphonious appellation of Stuben Huck; and having climbed over two pebbly bridges-looking down as you do so at the busy scene in the docks below, where crowds of canal craft lie packed and jumbled together-you turn a little to the left hand and behold-Magnificence!
Magnificence has no footpath, but it is not singular in that respect. It is of rather less than the average width of the streets in Hamburg-and they are all narrow-and the houses are lofty. It is paved with small pebbles, and has a gutter running down the centre; and as a short flight of stone steps forms the approach to the chief entrance of each house, the available roadway is small indeed. But they are grand houses in Magnificence, at least they have been, and still bear visible signs of their former character.
Let us enter one house; it will serve as a type of many houses in Hamburg. Having mounted the stone steps, we stand before a half-glazed folding-door, and seeing a small brass lever before us, we test its power, and find the door yield to the pressure. But we have set a clamorous bell ringing, like that of a suburban huxter, for this is the Hamburger's substitute for a knocker. We enter a large stone-paved hall, lighted from the back, where a glazed balcony overlooks the teeming canal. You wish to wipe your shoes. Well! do you see this pattern of a small area-railing cut in wood? That is our scraper and door-mat-all in one.
To our right is a massive oaken staircase. We ascend in gloom, for the staircase being built in the middle of the house, only a few straggling rays of light can reach it, and whence they proceed is a mystery. Every few steps we mount we are upon the point of stumbling into the door of some cupboard or apartment; they are in all sorts of places. At length we reach a broad landing paved with stone. What a complication of doors and passages, which the vague light tends to make more obscure! Here are huge presses, lumbering oaken cabinets, jammed into corners. We ascend a second flight and arrive at another extensive landing. Here are two suites of apartments, besides odd little cribs in the corners which are not occupied by other presses. There are still two floors above, but as they are both contained in the huge gable roof of the house, they are more useful as store-rooms than as habitable apartments. The quantity of wood we see about us is frightful when associated with the idea of fire.
We will enter the suite on the right hand; the apartments are light and agreeable, and overlook the canal, and, when the tide is up, and the canal full, and the grassy bleaching ground on the opposite bank is dotted with white linen, it is a pleasant scene indeed; but when the tide is out-ugh! the River Thames at low water is a paradise to it. The tidal changes are carefully watched, and it is not an unusual occurrence to hear the solemn gun booming through the air as a warning to the inhabitants to block and barricade their cellars and kitchens against the rush of waters.
It is Sunday morning, and the most beautiful melody of bells I ever heard is toning through the air. They are the bells of S. Michael's church, and I am told that the musician plays them by a set of pedal keys, and works himself into a mighty heat and flurry in the operation. But we cannot think of the wild manner and mad motions of the player in connection with those beautiful sounds, so clear and melodious; that half plaintive music so sweetly measured. They ring thus every morning, commencing at a quarter to six, and play till the hour strikes.
We descend, and make our way through irregular streets and dingy canals till we reach the church of St. Jacobi. It stands in an open space, is neither railed in, nor has it a graveyard attached to it. It is of stone, and has an immense gable roof, slated, and studded with eaved windows. A shortish square basement is at one end, from which springs a tall octangular steeple. Within all is quiet and decorous. The church is paved with stone, and there is a double row of pews down the centre.
But is this a Protestant Church? Most assuredly; Lutheran. You are astonished at the crosses, the images, the altar? True! there is something Romish in the whole arrangement, but it is Protestant for all that. You cannot help feeling vexed at the pertinacity with which the Germans whitewash everything, nor do the pale lavender-coloured curtains of the pulpit appear in keeping with the edifice. Everything is scrupulously clean.
We are too late to hear the congregational singing, the devotional union of voices, for as we enter the minister ascends into the pulpit in his black velvet skull-cap, and bristling white frill. Unless you are a good German scholar you will fail to understand the discourse so earnestly, so emphatically delivered. The echo of the building, and the high character of the composition, will baffle and mislead you; while, at the same time, the incessant tingling of the little silver bells suspended from the corners of scarlet velvet bags, which are handed along the pews (at the end of a stick), during the whole of the sermon, will distract and irritate you. It is thus they collect alms for the poor. Yet even to one ignorant of the language, there is a fullness and vigour in the style and manner of delivery that would almost persuade you that you had understood, and felt convinced of the truth of what you had heard. As we quit the church we purchase at the door a printed copy of the sermon from a poor widow woman, who is there to sell them at a penny each.
We will loiter home to dinner. The streets are thronged with people, with cheerful, contented faces, and in holiday attire. Who are these grave gentlemen? This little troop in sable trappings; buskins, cloaks, silken hose, hats and feathers, and shoes with large rosettes-all black and sombre, like so many middle aged Hamlets? Can they be masqueraders on the Sabbath? Possibly some of the senators in their official costume?
No! Oh, human vanity! A passer-by informs us that they are only undertakers' men-paid mourners. They are to swell the funeral procession, and are the mere mimics of woe. The undertakers of Hamburg vie with each other in the dressing of their men, and indeed, one indispensable part of their "stock-in-trade" are some half-dozen dress-suits of black, it matters not of what age or country, the stranger the better, so that the "effect" be good.
We will take a stroll about the beautiful Alster this Sunday afternoon.
It is late autumn, and the early budding trees have already shed their leaves. But rich, floating masses of foliage are still there-the deepening hues of autumn, and here and there broad patches of bright summer green. There are two Alsters, the "inner" and "outer," each of them a broad expanse of water; they are connected by flood-gates, surrounded by verdure, and studded with pleasure-boats; while on the city side several elegant pavilions hang on the water's edge, where coffee and beverages of every kind can be obtained, and the seldom omitted and never-to-be-forgotten music of the Germans may be heard thrilling in the evening air.
It is already growing dusk; let us enter the _Alster Halle_. This is the most important of these pavilions. It is not large; there is but the ground-floor. It has much the appearance of a French _cafe_, the whole space being filled with small, round, white marble tables, and innumerable chairs. Here all the lighter articles of refreshment are to be obtained; tea, coffee, wines, spirits and pastry in numberless shapes.
There is an inner room where the more quietly disposed can read his newspaper in comparative silence; here are German, Danish, French, and English journals, and a little sprinkling of literary periodicals.
Another room is set apart for billiards, where silent, absorbed individuals may be seen playing eternally at poule. In the evening a little band of skilled musicians, in the pay of the proprietor, perform choice morsels of beautiful music, and all this can be enjoyed for the price of a cup of coffee-twopence!
THE LAST HEADSMAN.
Ten years ago the ancient city of Hamburg was awakened into terror by the commission of a fearful murder. The cry of "Fire!" arose in the night; the _nachtwachter_ (watchman) gave the alarm; and the few means at command were resorted to with an energy and goodwill that sufficed soon to extinguish the flames. It was, however, discovered that the fire had not done the work it had been kindled for; it would not hide murder.
Among the smouldering embers in the _kellar_ or underground kitchen, where the fire had originated, was discovered the charred body of a poor old woman, whose recent wounds were too certain evidences of a violent death. It was also ascertained that a petty robbery of some few dollars had been committed, and the utmost vigilance was called into exercise to discover the perpetrator.
All surmises were in vain, till suspicion fell upon the watchman who had first given the alarm; and the first evidence of the track of guilt being thus fallen upon, it was not difficult to trace it to its source.
Numerous little scraps of evidence came out, one upon another, till the whole diabolical plot was stripped of its mystery, and the guilt of the _wachter_ clearly proved. He was convicted of the crime imputed to him, and condemned to death by the Senate. But on receiving sentence, the condemned man assumed a tone totally unexpected of him, for he boldly asserted that the punishment of death had fallen into disuse; that it was no longer the law of Hamburg; and concluded by defying the Senators to carry the sentence pronounced into execution.
It was indeed true that the ponderous weapon of the headsman had lain for two-and-twenty years rusting in its scabbard; nor without reason. At that period a criminal stood convicted and condemned to death. The law gave little mercy in those days, and there was no hesitation in carrying the sentence into effect. But an unexpected difficulty arose; the old headsman was but lately dead, and his son, a fine stalwart young man, was, from inexperience, considered unequal to the task. A crowd of eager competitors proffered their services in this emergency, but the ancient city of Hamburg, like some other ancient cities, was hampered with antiquated usages. Its profits and other advantages were tied up into little knots of monopoly, in various shapes of privileges and hereditary rights. The young headsman claimed his office on the latter ground; to the surprise of all, his mother, the wife of the old headsman, not merely supported him in his claim, but persisted, with a spirit that might have become a Roman matron but certainly no one else, that if her son were incapable, she herself was responsible for the performance of her husband's duty, and would execute it. The Senate was in consternation, for this assertion of hereditary right was unanswerable; and while they courteously declined the offer of the chivalrous mother, they felt constrained to accept the services of her son.
The fatal morning came; the scaffold stood erected; and pressing closely around the wooden barriers, stood the anxious crowd awaiting the execution. The culprit knelt with head erect, his neck and shoulders bared for the stroke, while the young headsman stood by his side armed with the double-handed sword, the weapon of his office. At a sign given, he swung the tremendous blade in the air, and aimed a fearful blow at the neck of the condemned; but his skilless hand sloped the broad blade as it fell, and it struck deeply into the victim's breast. Amid a cry of terror he raised his sword again; again it whirled through the air, and again it failed to do its deadly work. The miserable wretch still lived; and a third stroke was necessary to complete the task so dreadfully began. Who can wonder that that fearful weapon had for years long rested from its service?
Influenced by this terrible scene, and, let us hope, as well by motives of humanity as by the conviction of the utter uselessness of such a spectacle as a moral lesson, the Senate of Hamburg had commuted the punishment of death into that of a life imprisonment. Yet now they were taunted with their unreadiness to shed blood, and dared to carry the law, as it still stood upon the statute-book, into effect. For a while it seemed that anger would govern the acts of the Senate, for every preparation was made for the execution. The headsman, whose blundering essay has been above related, was still living, but he had long filled the humble office of a messenger, and made no claim to repeat his effort.
Among the many competitors who offered their services, a Dane was finally selected, and the inhabitants of Hamburg, excited to the utmost degree by the anticipation of the forthcoming spectacle, awaited the event with a morbid and gloating curiosity. They were, however, disappointed; humanity prevailed, and the guilty _wachter_ was conducted to a life prison.
The Senate of Hamburg has not formally abolished the punishment of death; but the last _hereditary_ headsman is now growing an old man, and the first and only stroke of his weapon was dealt thirty-two years ago.
CHAPTER IV.
WORKMEN IN HAMBURG.
Here amid the implements of labor, in the dingy _werkstube_ in Johannis Strasse; lighted by the single flicker of an oil lamp, with the workboard for a writing-desk, let me endeavour to collect some few scattered details about the German workmen in Hamburg.
German workmen! do not the very words recall to your memory old amber-coloured engravings of sturdy men, with waving locks, grasping the arm of the printing-press, by the side of Faust, Schffer, and Gottenberg? Or, perhaps, the words of Schiller's "Song of the Bell" may not be unknown to you, and hum in your ears: