Although all these guilds are, in their original constitution, formed on the same model, they differ materially in their internal arrangements.
Much depends upon the ruling government of the state in which they are situated; for, while in despotic Prussia, what is there called Freedom of Trade is declared for all, in the "free" town of Hamburg everything is bound and locked up in small monopolies.
In some parts of Germany there are "close trades," which means to say that the number of masters in each is definitely fixed. This is so in Hamburg. For instance, among the goldsmiths, the number of new masters annually to be elected is three, being about sufficient to fill up the deficiencies occurring from death and other causes. I have heard of as many as five being elected in one year, and I have also heard it asserted that this was to be accounted for on the supposition that the aldermen had been "smeared in the hand," that is to say, bribed.
There are other trades locked up in a different way. There exist several of this kind in Nuremberg and thereabouts; as, the awl and punch-makers, lead-pencil makers, hand-bell makers, gold and silver wire-drawers, and others. They occupy a particular town or district, and they say, "Here we are. We possess these trades, and we mean to keep them to ourselves.
We will teach no strangers our craft; we will confine it among our relatives and townsmen; and in order to prevent the knowledge of it from spreading any farther, we will allow our workmen to travel only within the limits of our town or land;" and so they keep their secrets close.
In other trades, the workmen are allowed to engage themselves only to a privileged employer. That is to say, they dare not execute a private order, but can receive employment from a master of the craft only. In Prussia, and some few other lands, each workman can work on his own account, and can offer his goods for sale in the public market unhindered, so long as they are the production of his own hands alone; but should he employ a journeyman, then he pays a tax to Government of about ten shillings annually, the tax increasing in proportion to the number of men he may employ.
There are also "endowed" and "unendowed" trades. An endowed guild is one the members of which pay a certain small sum monthly while in work, and thus form a fund for the relief of the sick and the assistance of the travelling members of the trade. There are few trades of the unendowed kind, for the workmen of such trades have to depend upon the generosity of their companions in the craft in the hour of need; and it is generally found more economical to pay a regular sum than to be called on at uncertain intervals for a donation; moreover, the respectability of the craft is better maintained.
While we talk of respectability, we may add that it was formerly the especial care of the heads of each guild, to see that no disreputable persons became members of the trade; and illegitimate children, and even the lawful offspring of shepherds, bailiffs, and town servants were carefully excluded. This practice exists no longer, except in some few insignificant places; but the law is still very general which says that no workman can become a master who has not fulfilled every regulation imposed by his guild; that is to say, he must have been apprenticed at the proper age to a properly-constituted master; must have regularly completed his period of apprenticeship, and have passed the appointed time in travel. The worst part of all these regulations is, that, as they vary in almost every state, the unfortunate wanderer has to conform to a new set of laws in every new land he enters.
One other regulation is almost universal. Each guild must have a place of meeting; not a sumptuous hall, but mere accommodation in a public-house. It is called the "Herberge," and answers, in many respects, to our "House of Call." This is the weary traveller's place of rest-he can claim a shelter here; indeed, in most cases, he dares sleep nowhere else. Here also the guild holds its quarterly meetings. By way of illustration, let us take the Goldsmith's Herberge in Hamburg; the "Stadt Bremen" is the sign of the house. In it, the goldsmiths use a large, rectangular apartment, furnished with a few rough tables and chairs, and a wooden bench running round its four walls. On the tables are arranged long clay pipes, and in the centre of each table is a small dish of what the uninitiated might take to be dried tea leaves. This is uncut tobacco, which the host, the father of the House of Call, is bound to provide. The secretary and messenger of the guild of goldsmiths are there, together with one or two of the "Altgesellen" (elder journeymen), who perform the active part of the duties of the guild. The minutes of the last meeting, and the incidents of the quarter-possibly, also, an abstract of the rules-having been read, and new officers, to supersede those who retire, having been balloted for, the business of the evening closes. Then commences a confusion of tongues; for here are congregated Russians, Hungarians, Danes, Hamburgers, Prussians, Austrians; possibly there may be found here a member of every state in the German Union.
None are silent, and the dialect of each is distinct. Assiduously, in the pauses of his private conversation, every man smokes his long pipe, and drinks his beer or punch. Presently two female harp-players enter-sources of refreshment quite as popular in Hamburg as the punch.
They strike up an infatuating waltz. The effect is wonderful. Two or three couples (men waltzing with men, of course) are immediately on their feet, scrambling, kicking, and scraping round the room; hugging each other in the most awkward manner. Chairs and tables are huddled into corners; for the mania has seized upon two-thirds of the company. The rest cannot forsake their beer, but congregate in the corners, and yell, and scream toasts and "Lebe-hoch!" till they are hoarse.
Two girls enter, with trifling articles of male attire for sale; stocks, pomatum, brushes, and beard-wax; but the said damsels are immediately pounced upon for partners. In the intervals of the music a grand tournament takes place; the weapons being clay-pipes, which are speedily shattered into a thousand pieces, and strewn about the room to facilitate dancing. Such a scene of shuffling, whirling, shouting, and pipe-crunching could scarcely be seen elsewhere.
We will take a German youth destined to become an artisan, and endeavour to follow him through the complication of conflicting usages of which he stands the ordeal. Hans is fourteen years of age, and has just left school with a decent education. Hans has his trade and master chosen for him; is taken before the heads of the guild, and his indenture duly signed and sealed in their presence, they themselves witnessing the document. His term of apprenticeship is probably four years, perhaps six; a premium is seldom given, and when it is, it shortens the period of apprenticeship. The indenture, together with a certificate of baptism, in some cases that of confirmation (which ceremony serves as an important epoch in Germany), and even a documentary proof of vaccination, are deposited in the coffers of the guild, and kept at the Herberge for future reference.
Obedience to elders and superiors is the one great duty inculcated in the minds of all Germans, and Hans is taught to look upon his master as a second father; to consider short commons as a regulation for his especial good, and to bear cuffing-if he should fall in the way of it-patiently.
If he be an apprentice in Vienna, he may possibly breakfast upon a hunch of brown bread, and an unlimited supply of water; dine upon a thin soup and a block of tasteless, fresh-boiled beef; and sup upon a cold crust.
He may fare better or worse; but, as a general rule, he will sleep in a vile hole, will look upon coffee and butter as undeniable luxuries, and know the weight of his master's hand.
Hans has one great source of pleasure. There is a state school, which he attends on Sundays, and where he is instructed in drawing and modelling.
In his future travels he will find the advantage he has acquired over less educated mechanics in this necessary knowledge; and should he come to England, he will discover that his skill as a draughtsman will place him at once in a position superior to that of the chance-taught workmen about him. He completes his apprenticeship without attempting to run away. That is practically impossible; but he yearns, with all the ardour of a young heart, for the happy day when he may tramp out of his native town with his knapsack on his back, and the wide world before him.
We will suppose Hans out of his time, and declared a free journeyman by the guild. The law of his country now has it that he must travel-generally for three years, perhaps four or six-before he can take up the position of a master. He may work for a short period in his native town as a journeyman, but forth he must; nor is he in any way loth. One only contingency there is, which may serve to arrest him in his course,-he may be drawn as a conscript-and, possibly, forget in the next two or three years, as a soldier, all he has previously learned in four as a mechanic. But we suppose Hans to have escaped this peril, and to be on the eve of his departure.
When an English gentleman, or mechanic, or beggar, in these isles, has resolved upon making a journey, he has but to pack up his traps, whether it be in his portmanteau, his deal-box, or his pocket-handkerchief; to purchase his ticket at the railway or steam-packet station; and without asking or consulting with anybody about the matter, to take his seat in the vehicle, and off he goes. Not so Hans. He gives his master fourteen days' notice of his intention to wander; applies to the aldermen of his guild for copies of the various documents concerning himself in their possession; and obtains from his employer a written attestation of his past services. This document is called a "Kundschaft;" is written in set form, acknowledges his probity and industry, and is countersigned by the two aldermen. He is now in a condition to wait upon the "Herberges-Vater" (the landlord of the House of Call), and request his signature also. The Vater, seeing that Hans owes nothing to him or to any other townsman-and all creditors know that they have only to report their claims at the Herberge to obtain for them a strict attention-signs his paper, "all quit." Surely he may start forth now! Not so; the most important document is still wanting. He has, as yet, no passport or wander-book.
Hans goes to the police-bureau, and, as he is poor, has to wait a long while. If Hans were rich, or an artist, or a master's son, it is highly probable that ho would be able to obtain a passport-and the possession of a passport guarantees many advantages-but as Hans is simply a workman, a "wander-book" only is granted to him. This does indeed cost him less money, but it thrusts him into an unwelcome position, from which it is not easy to escape. He is placed under stricter rule, and, among other things, is forced, during his wandering, to sleep at his trade Herberge, which, from the very monopoly it thus enjoys, is about the worst place he could go to for a lodging.
The good magistrate of Perleberg-the frontier town of Prussia, as you enter from Mecklenburg-had the kindness to affix to my passport a document entitled, "Ordinance concerning the Wandering of Working-men."
I will briefly translate its contents. The "Verordnung" commences with a preamble, to the effect that, notwithstanding the various things that have been done and undone with respect to the aforesaid journeymen, it still happens that numbers of them wander purposeless about the land, to the great burden of their particular trades and the public in general, and to the imminent danger of the common safety. Therefore, be it enacted, that "passports," that is to say, "passes," in which the distinct purpose of the journey is stated, such as a search for employment; or "wander-books," in which occupation by manual labour is the especial object, are to be granted to those natives of Prussia only who pursue a trade or art for the perfection of which travelling may be considered useful or necessary. To those only who are irreproachable in character, and perfectly healthy in body; this latter to be attested by a medical certificate. To those only who have not passed their thirtieth year, nor have travelled for the five previous years without intermission. To those only who possess a proper amount of clothing, including linen, as well as a sum of money not less than five dollars (about sixteen shillings) for travelling expenses. So much for natives.
Foreigners must possess all the above-named requisites; must be provided with proper credentials from their home authorities, and may not have been more than four weeks without employment on their arrival at the frontier. Again, every wanderer must distinctly state in what particular town or city he intends to seek employment, and by what route he purposes to get there; and any deviation from the chosen road (which will be marked in the wander-book) will be visited by the punishment of expulsion from the country. A fixed number of days will be allotted to the wanderer in which to reach his destination, but should he overstep that period, a similar punishment awaits him; expulsion from the country always meaning that the offender shall retrace his steps, and quit the land by the way he had entered it. This is the substance of the "ordinance."
Hans is ready for the road. He has only now to take his farewell. A farewell among workmen is simply a drinking-bout, a parting glass taken overnight. Hans has many friends; these appoint a place of assemblage, and invite him thither. It is a point of honour among them that the "wandering boy" shall pay nothing. Imagine a large, half-lighted room; a crowded board of bearded faces. On the table steams a huge bowl of punch, which the chosen head of the party, perhaps Johann's late master, ladles into the tiny glasses. He proclaims the toast, "The Health of the Wanderer!" The little crowd are on their feet, and amid a pretty tinkling of glasses, an irregular shout arises, a small hurricane of voices, wishing him good speed.
What songs are sung, what healths are drunk, what heartfelt wishes are expressed! The German workmen are good friends to one another-men who are already away from friends and home, and whose tenderest recollections are awakened in the farewell expressed to a departing companion. Many tears are shed, many hearty presses of the hand are given, and not a few kisses impressed upon the cheek. Little tokens of affection are interchanged, and promises to write are made, but seldom kept. With this mingling and outpouring of full hearts, the stream of punch still flows through tiny glasses: but, since "Many a little makes a mickle," the farewell thus taken ends sometimes as a debauch.
Hans, in the morning, is perhaps a little the worse for last night's punch. He is attired in a clean white blouse, strapped round the waist; a neat travelling-cap; low, stout shoes; and, possibly, linen wrappers, instead of socks. The knapsack, strapped to his back, contains a sufficient change of linen, a coat artistically packed, which is to be worn in cities, and a few necessary tools; the whole stock weighing, perhaps, twenty or thirty pounds. On the sides of the knapsack are little pouches, containing brushes, blacking, and soap; and in his breast-pocket is stowed away a little flask of brandy-schnaps, to revive his drooping spirits on the road. A stout stick completes his equipment.
A last adieu from the one friend of his heart, who will walk a few miles with him on the way-and so he is launched fairly on his journey.
Hans finds the road much harder, and his knapsack heavier than he had expected. Now he is drenched with rain, and can get no shelter; and, when he does, he will find straw an inconvenient substitute for a bed.
At last he arrives at Berlin. He has picked up a companion on the road; and, as it frequently happens that several trades hold their meetings in the same house, they both are bound to the same Herberge. Through strange, half-lighted streets, along narrow edges of pavement, they proceed till they enter a court, or wynd, with no footpath at all, and they are in the Schuster Gasse, before the door of the Herberge. The comrade of Hans announces them as they pass the bar, and the next moment they are in the travellers' room, amid as motley a group as ever met within four walls.
Tumult and hubbub. An indescribable odour of tobacco, cummin (carraway), and potato-salad. A variety of hustled blouses. Sunburnt and haggard faces. Ragged beards and unkempt locks. A strong pipe hanging from every lip; beer, or kummil (a spirit prepared with cummin) at every hand.
Wild snatches of song, and hurried bursts of dialogue. Some are all violence and uproar; some are half dead with sleep and fatigue, their arms sprawling about the tables. Such is the inside of a German trade traveller's room.
Hans and his companion hand over their papers to the "father" as a security, and their knapsacks to a sluttish-looking girl, who deposits them in a cupboard in the corner of the room, and locks the door upon them. Our travellers order a measure of Berliner Weiss Bier, to be in keeping with the rest, and long for the hour of sleep. At length, a stout young man enters, carrying a lighted lantern, and in a loud voice of authority summonses all to bed. And there is a scrambling and hustling among some of the travellers, a hasty guzzling of beer and spirits, and a few low murmurs at being disturbed, but none dare disobey.
A shambling troop of sixteen or eighteen, they quit the room, and enter a small paved yard, preceded by the young man with the lantern. There is a rough building resembling a stable, at the other end of the yard; and, in one corner, a steep ladder, with a handrail, which leads to a chamber above. They ascend, and enter a long, low loft, so completely crowded with rough bedsteads that there remains but a narrow alley between them, just sufficient to allow a single person to pass. Eight double beds, and the ceiling so low that the companion of Hans can scarcely stand upright with his hat on.
"New-comers this way," shouts the conductor.
"What's the matter, now?" inquires Hans of his comrade.
"Take off your coat," is the answer in a whisper; "undo the wristbands, and throw open the collar of your shirt."
"What for?"
"To be examined."
So they are examined; and, being pronounced sound, are allowed to sleep with the rest of the flock. In this loft, each bed with at least two occupants, and the door locked-without consideration for fire, accident, or sudden indisposition,-Hans passes the first night in Berlin.
But there is no work in Berlin, and Hans must pursue his journey. He waits for hours at the police-office, as play-goers wait at the door of a London theatre. By and by, he gets into the small bureau with a desperate rush. That business is settled, and he is off again. Time runs on; and, after a further tramp of good two hundred miles, Hans gets settled at last in the free city of Hamburg.
With the exception of a few factories, such as the silk-works at Chemnitz, in Saxony, and the colony of goldsmiths at Pfortzheim, in Wurtemburg, there are few extensive manufactories in Germany. Trade is split up into little masterships of from one to five or six men. This circumstance materially affects the relation between the employer and employed.
The master under whom Hans serves at Hamburg is a pleasant, affable gentleman; his apprentice Peter may be of a different opinion, but that is of no consequence. The master has spent the best years of his life in England and France; has learned to speak the languages of both countries with perfect facility, and is one of the lucky monopolists of his trade.
He employs three workmen; one of them, who is possessed of that peculiar cast of countenance generally attributed to the children of Israel, has been demurred to by the Guild,-and why? Because a Jew is legally incapable of working in Hamburg. He is, however, allowed the usual privileges on attesting that he is not an Israelite.
Our master accommodates under his own roof one workman and his apprentice Peter. The others, whom he cannot lodge, are allowed each one mark-banco (fourteen pence) per week, to enable them to find a bed-chamber elsewhere. They suffer a pecuniary loss by the arrangement. Hans sleeps in a narrow box, built on the landing, into which no ray of heaven's light had ever penetrated. His bedding is a very simple affair. He is troubled with neither blankets nor sheets. An "under" and an "over" bed, the latter rather lighter than the former, and both supposed to be of feathers, form his bed and bedding. Hans is as well off as others, so he does not complain. As for the apprentice, Peter, it was known that he disappeared at a certain hour every evening; and from his appearance when he turned out in the morning, Hans was under the impression that he wildly shot himself into some deep and narrow hole, and slept the night through on his head.
And how does Hans fare under his master's roof? Considering the reminiscences of his apprenticeship, he relishes his cup of coffee in the morning; his tiny round roll of white bread; the heavy black rye-loaf, into which he is allowed to hew his way unchecked; and the beautiful Holstein butter. Not being accustomed to better food, it is possible that he enjoys the tasteless, fresh boiled beef, and the sodden baked meat, with no atom of fat, which form the staple food at dinner. Whether he can comprehend the soups which are sometimes placed before him,-now made of shredded lemons, now of strained apples, and occasionally of plain water, with a sprinkling of rice, is another matter; but the sourkraut and bacon, the boiled beef and raisins, and the baked veal and prunes, are certain to be looked upon by him as unusual luxuries.
The master presides at the table, and blesses the meat with the air of a father of his people. Although workmen in Germany are little better than old apprentices, this daily and familiar intercourse has the effect of breaking down the formal barriers which in England effectually divide the capitalist and the labourer. It creates a respectful familiarity, which raises the workman without lowering the master. The manners of both are thereby decidedly improved.
Hans gradually learns other trade customs. His comrade falls sick, and is taken to the free hospital, a little way out of the city. This hospital is clean and well kept, but fearfully crowded. The elder journeymen of the Guild are there too, and they comfort the sick man, and hand him the weekly stipend, half-a-crown, allowed out of the sick-fund.
Hans contributes to this sick-fund two marks-two shillings and fourpence-a quarter. He does it willingly, but the master has power to deduct it from his wages in the name of the Guild. His poor sick friend dies; away from home and friends-a desolate being among strangers. But he is not, therefore, to be neglected. Every workman in the trade is called upon to contribute his share-about sevenpence-towards the expenses of the funeral; and the two senior, assisted by four other journeymen, in full evening dress, attend his funeral. His effects are then carefully packed up, and sent-a melancholy memorial of the dead-to his relations.
From the same fund which relieves the sick, are the "wandering boys" also assisted. But the "Geschenk" (gift), as it is called, is a mere trifle; sometimes but a few pence, and in a large city like Berlin it amounts to but twenty silver groschen-little more than two shillings. It is not considered disgraceful to accept this donation; as all, when in work, contribute towards the fund from which it is supplied.
And what is the amount of wages that German workmen receive? In Hamburg wages vary from five to eight marks per week, that is, from seven shillings to ten and sixpence, paid monthly. In Leipsic they are paid fortnightly, and average about ten shillings per week. In Berlin wages are paid by the calendar month, and average twenty-four dollars (a dollar is rather more than three shillings), for that period; so that a workman may be said to earn about eighteen shillings a week, but is dependent on his own resources for food and lodging. In Vienna the same regulation exists, and wages range from five to eight guldens-ten to sixteen shillings per week-paid weekly, as in England. But a workman in Vienna may be respectably lodged, lighted, and washed for at the rate of half-a-crown a week. In Berlin and Vienna married journeymen are to be met with, but not in great numbers, and in smaller towns they may almost be said to be unknown. Dr. Korth, in his address to his young friends, the "travelling boys," on this subject, emphatically says-"Avoid, in God's name, all attachments to womankind, more especially to those of whom your hearts would say, 'These could I love.'" And then the quaint old gentleman proceeds to say a number of ungallant things, which are not worth translating.
No! the German workman is taught to hold himself free, that he may carry out the law of his land to the letter; that he may return from his travels at the appointed time "a wiser and a better man;" that he may show proofs of his acquired skill in his trade, and thereupon claim the master's right and position. He is then free to marry, and is looked upon as an "eligible party." But how seldom does all this come to pass, may the thousands who swarm in London and Paris; may the German colonies which dot the American States, sufficiently tell. Many linger in large cities till they feel that to return to the little native village, and its old, poor, plodding ways, would be little better than burial alive; and some return, wasted with foreign vice and purchased adversity, premature old men, to die upon the threshold of their early homes.
One more question-what are their amusements? It would be a long story to tell, but certainly home-reading is not a prominent enjoyment among them.
German governments, as a rule, take care that the people's amusements shall not be interfered with. The workmen throng in dance-houses, beer-cellars, cafes, and theatres, which are all liveliest and most attractive on a Sunday; and, as they are tolerably cheap, they are generally a successful lure from deep thinking or study. Besides, the German workman has no home. If he stay there at all in holiday hours, it is to draw, or model, or sing romances to the strumming of his guitar.
CHAPTER VII.
HAMBURG TO LuBECK.