Time had glided along so agreeably ever since my arrival at Langen-Schwalbach, my body had enjoyed such perpetual motion, my mind such absolute rest, that I had almost forgotten, though my holiday was nearly over, I had not yet reached the intended nec plus ultra of my travels—namely, Schlangenbad, or the Serpents' Bath. On the spur of the moment, therefore, I ordered a carriage; and, with my wallet lying by my side, having bidden adieu to a simple-hearted village, which, for the short remainder of my days, I believe, I shall remember with regard, I continued for some time gradually to ascend its eastern boundary, until I arrived nearly at the summit or pinnacle of the Taunus hills. The view from this point was very extensive indeed, and the park-like appearance of the whole of the lofty region or upper story of Nassau formed a prospect at once noble and pleasing. The Langen-Schwalbach band of wind-instruments was playing deep beneath me in the valley, but hidden by the fog, its sound was so driven about by the wind, that had I not recognized the tunes I but faintly heard, I should not have been able to determine from what point of the compass they proceeded. Sometimes they seemed to rise, like the mist, from one valley—sometimes from another—occasionally I fancied they were like the hurricane, sweeping across the surface of the country, and once I could almost have declared that the Æolian band was calmly seated above me in the air.

The numberless ravines which intersect Nassau were not discernible from the spot where my carriage had halted, and Langen-Schwalbach was so muffled in its peaceful retreat, that a stranger could scarcely have guessed it existed.

From this elevated point the Taunus hills began gradually to fall towards Wiesbaden and Frankfort; but a branch road, suddenly turning to the right, rapidly descended, or rather meandered down a long, rocky, narrow ravine, clothed with beech and oak-trees to its summit.

With a wheel of the carriage dragged, as I glided fast down this romantic valley, the scenery, compared with what I had just left, was on a very confined, contracted scale—in short, nothing was to be seen but a trickling stream running down the grassy bottom of a valley, and hills which appeared to environ it on both sides; besides this, the road writhed and bent so continually, that I could seldom see a quarter of a mile of it at once.

After descending about three-quarters of a league, I came to a new turn, and here Schlangenbad, the Serpents’ Bath, dressed in its magic mantle of tranquillity, suddenly appeared not only before, but within less than a hundred yards of me.

This secluded spot, to which such a number of people annually retreat, consists of nothing but an immense old building, or “Bad-Haus,” a new one, with two or three little mills, which, fed, as it were, by the crumbs that fall from the rich man’s table, are turned by the famous spring of water, after fine, fashionable ladies have done washing themselves in it.

When the carriage stopped, my first impression (which but too often, I regret to say, has been an erroneous one) was not in favour of the place; for, though its colours were certainly very beautiful, yet, from being so completely surrounded by hills, it seemed to wear some of the features of a prison; and when, my vehicle driving away, I was first left by myself, I felt for a moment that the little band of music, which was playing upon the terrace above my head, was not quite competent to enliven the scene. However, after I had walked in various directions about this sequestered spot, sufficiently not only to become acquainted with its locale, but to discover that it possessed a number of modest beauties, completely veiled from the passing gaze of the stranger, I went to the old “Bad-Haus,” to obtain rooms from the bath-master (appointed by the Duke), who has charge of both these great establishments.

I found the little man seated in his office, in the agony of calculating upon a slate the amount of seven times nine; perceiving, however, that instead of multiplying the two figures together, he had reared up a ladder of seven nines, which he was slowly ascending, step by step, I felt quite unwilling to interrupt him; and as his wife appeared to be gifted with all or many of the little abilities in which he might have been deficient, I gladly availed myself of her offer to show me over the two buildings, in order that I might select some apartments.

The old “Bad-Haus,” and Hotel de Nassau, which, being united together, form one of the two great buildings I have mentioned, are situated on the side of the hill close to the macadamized road which leads to Mainz; and to give some idea of the gigantic scale on which these sorts of German bathing establishments are constructed, I will state, that in this rambling “Bad-Haus” I counted 443 windows, and that, without ever twice going over the same ground, I found the passages measured 409 paces, or, as nearly as possible, a quarter of a mile!

Below this immense barrack, and on the opposite side of the road, is the new “Bad-Haus,” or bathing house, pleasantly situated in a shrubbery. This building (which contains 172 windows) is of a modern construction, and straddling across the bottom of the valley, the celebrated water, which rises milk-warm from the rock, after supplying the baths on the lower story, runs from beneath it. No sooner, however, does the fluid escape from the building, than a group of poor washerwomen, standing up to their knees on a sheet, which is stretched upon the ground, humbly make use of it before it has time to get to the two little mills which are patiently waiting for it about a couple of hundred yards below.

After having passed, in the two establishments, an immense number of rooms, each furnished by the Duke with white window-curtains, a walnut-tree bed with bedding; a chestnut-tree table, an elastic spring sofa, and three or four walnut-tree chairs, the price of each room (on an average from 10d. to 2s. a-day) being painted on the door, I complimented the good, or, to give her her proper title, the “bad” lady who attended me, on the plain, but useful order in which they appeared; in return for which she very obligingly offered to show me the source of the famous water, for the sake of which two such enormous establishments had been erected.

In the history of the little duchy of Nassau, the discovery of this spring forms a story full of innocence and simplicity. Once upon a time there was a heifer, with which everything in nature seemed to disagree. The more she ate, the thinner she grew—the more her mother licked her hide, the rougher and the more staring was her coat. Not a fly in the forest would bite her—never was she seen to chew the cud, but hide-bound, and melancholy, her hips seemed actually to be protruding from her skin. What was the matter with her no one knew—what could cure her no one could divine;—in short, deserted by her master and her species, she was, as the faculty would term it, “given over.”

In a few weeks, however, she suddenly re-appeared among the herd, with ribs covered with flesh—eyes like a deer—skin sleek as a mole’s—breath sweetly smelling of milk—saliva hanging in ringlets from her jaw! Every day seemed to re-establish her health; and the phenomenon was so striking, that the herdsman, feeling induced to watch her, discovered that regularly every evening she wormed her way, in secret, into the forest, until she reached an unknown spring of water, from which, having refreshed herself, she quietly returned to the valley.

The trifling circumstance, scarcely known, was almost forgotten by the peasant, when a young Nassau lady began decidedly to show exactly the same incomprehensible symptoms as the heifer. Mother, sisters, friends, father, all tried to cure her, but in vain; and the physician had actually

when the herdsman, happening to hear of her case, prevailed upon her, at last, to try the heifer’s secret remedy—she did so; and, in a very short time, to the utter astonishment of her friends, she became one of the stoutest and roundest young women in the duchy.

What had suddenly cured one sick lady was soon deemed a proper prescription for others, and all cases meeting with success, the spring, gradually rising into notice, received its name from a circumstance which I shall shortly explain. In the meanwhile, I will observe, that even to this day horses are brought by the peasants to be bathed, and I have good authority for believing, that in cases of slight consumption of the lungs (a disorder common enough among horses), the animal recovers his flesh with surprising rapidity—nay, I have seen even the pigs bathed, though I must own that they appeared to have no other disorder except hunger. But to return to the “bad” lady.

After following her through a labyrinth of passages (one of which not only leant sideways, but had an ascent like a hill), she at last unlocked a door, which was no sooner opened, than I saw glide along the floor close by me a couple of small serpents! As the lady was talking very earnestly at the time, I merely flinched aside as they passed, without making any observation; but after I had crossed a small garden, she pointed to a door which she said was that of the source, and while she stopped to speak to one of the servants, I advanced alone, and opening the gate, saw beneath me a sort of brunnen with three serpents about the size of vipers swimming about in it! Unable to contain my surprise, I made a signal to the lady with my staff, and as she hurried towards me, I still pointed to the reptiles, as if to know why in the name of Æsculapius they were allowed thus to contaminate the source of the baths?

In the calmest manner possible, my conductress (who seemed perfectly to comprehend my sensations) replied, “Au contraire, c'est ce qui donne qualitÉ À ces eaux!”

The quantity of these reptiles, or Schlangen, that exist in the woods surrounding the spring is very great; and they of course have given their name to the place. When full grown they are about five feet long, and in hot weather are constantly seen gliding across the paths, or rustling under the dead leaves of the forest.

As soon as the lady had shown me the whole establishment, she strongly recommended me to take up my abode in the old “Bad-Haus;” however, on my first arrival, in crossing the promenade in front of it, I had caught a glimpse of some talkative old ladies, whose tongues and knitting needles seemed to be racing against each other, which made it very advisable to decline the polite invitation; and I accordingly selected apartments at one extremity of the new Bad-Haus, my windows on the north looking into the shrubbery, those on the east upon the two little water-mills, revolving in the green lonely valley of Schlangenbad.

The cell of the hermit can hardly be more peaceful than this abode: it is true it was not only completely inhabited (there being no more rooms unoccupied), but it was teeming with people many of whom are known in the great world. For instance, among its inmates were the Princess Romanow, first wife of the late Grand Duke Constantine of Russia—the Duke of Saxe-Coburg—the Prince of Hesse Homburg (whose brother, the late Landgrave, married the Princess Elizabeth of England)—a Prussian Minister from Berlin, and occasionally the Princess Royal of Prussia, married to the son of King Frederic William. No part of the building was exclusively occupied by these royal guests, but paying for their rooms no more than the prices marked upon the doors, they ascended the same staircase and walked along the same passages with the humblest inmates of the place. Yet within the narrow dominion of their own chamber, visiters were received with every attention due to form and etiquette. The silence and apparent solitude which reigned, however, in this new “Bad-Haus” was to me always a subject of astonishment and admiration. Sometimes a person would be seen carefully locking his door, and then, with the key in his pocket, quietly stealing along the passage: at other times, a lady might be caught on tip-toes softly ascending the stairs; but neither steps nor voices were to be heard; and far from witnessing anything like ostentation, it seemed to me that concealment was rather the order of the day. As soon as it grew dark, a single wick floating in a small glass lamp, open at the top, was placed at each great entrance door; and another at each extremity of the long passages into which the rooms on each floor communicated, giving the visiters just light enough to avoid running against the walls: in obscure weather, there was also a lamp here and there in the shrubbery, but as long as the pale moon shone in the heavens, its lovely light was deemed sufficient.

A table d'hÔte dinner, at a florin for each person, was daily prepared, for all, or any, who might choose to attend it; and for about the same price, a dinner with knives, forks, table-cloth, napkins, &c., would be forwarded to any guest who, like myself, was fond of the luxury of solitude: coffee and tea were cheap in proportion.

I have dwelt long upon these apparently trifling details, because, humble as they may sound, I conceive that they contain a very important moral. How many of our country people are always raving about the cheapness of the Continent, and how many every year break up their establishments in England to go in search of it; yet, if we had but sense, or rather courage enough to live at home as economically and as rationally as princes and people of all ranks live throughout the rest of Europe, how unnecessary would be the sacrifice, and how much real happiness would be the result!

The baths at Schlangenbad are the most harmless and delicious luxuries of the sort I have ever enjoyed; and I really quite looked forward to the morning for the pleasure with which I paid my addresses to this delightful element. The effect the water produces on the skin is very singular; it is about as warm as milk, but infinitely softer: and after dipping the hand into it, if the thumb be rubbed against the fingers, it is said by many to resemble satin. Nevertheless, whatever may be its sensation, when the reader reflects that people not only come to these baths from Russia, but that the water in stone bottles, merely as a cosmetic, is sent to St. Petersburg and other distant parts of Europe, he will admit that it must be soft indeed to have gained for itself such an extraordinary degree of celebrity: for there is no town at Schlangenbad, not even a village—nothing therefore but the real or fancied charm of the water could attract people into a little sequestered valley, which in every sense of the word is out of sight of the civilized world; and yet I must say, that I never remember to have existed in a place which possessed such fascinating beauties; besides which (to say nothing of breathing pure, dry air), it is no small pleasure to live in a skin which puts all people in good humour—at least, with themselves. But besides the cosmetic charms of this water, it is declared to possess virtues of more substantial value: it is said to tranquillize the nerves, to soothe all inflammation; and from this latter property; the cures of consumption which are reported to have been effected, among human beings and cattle, may have proceeded. Yet whatever good effect the water may have upon this insidious disorder, its first operation most certainly must be to neutralize the bad effect of the climate, which to consumptive patients must decidedly be a very severe trial, for delightful as it is to people in robust health, yet the keenness of the mountain air, together with the sudden alternations of temperature to which the valley of Schlangenbad is exposed, must, I think, be anything but a remedy for weak lungs.

The effect produced upon the skin, by lying about twenty minutes in the bath, I one day, happened to overhear a short, fat Frenchman describe to his friend in the following words—“Monsieur, dans ces bains on devient absolument amoureux de soi-mÊme!” I cannot exactly corroborate this Gallic statement, yet I must admit that limbs, even old ones, gradually do appear as if they were converted into white marble. The skin assumes a sort of glittering, phosphoric brightness, resembling very much white objects, which, having been thrown overboard, in calm weather within the tropics, many of my readers have probably watched sinking in the ocean, which seems to blanch and illuminate them as they descend. The effect is very extraordinary, and I know not how to account for it, unless it be produced by some prismatic refraction, caused by the peculiar particles with which the fluid is impregnated.

The Schlangenbad water contains the muriates and carbonates of lime, soda, and magnesia, with a slight excess of carbonic acid which holds the carbonates in solution. The celebrated embellishment which it produces on the skin is, in my opinion, a sort of corrosion, which removes tan, or any other artificial covering that the surface may have attained from exposure and ill-treatment by the sun and wind. In short the body is cleaned by it, just as a kitchen-maid scours her copper saucepan; and the effect being evident, ladies modestly approach it from the most distant parts of Europe. I am by no means certain, however, that they receive any permanent benefit; indeed, on the contrary, I should think that their skins would eventually become, if anything, coarser, from the removal of a slight veil or covering, intended by Nature as a protection to the cuticle.

But whether this water be permanently beneficial to ladies or not, the softness it gives to the whole body is quite delightful; and with two elements, air and water, in perfection, I found that I grew every hour more and more attached to the place.

On the cellar-floor, or lower story of my abode (“the New Bad-Haus”), where the baths are situated, there lived an old man and his wife, whose duty it was to prepare the baths, and to give towels, &c. I do not know whether the Schlangenbad waters corrode the temper as well as the skin, yet, certainly, this old couple appeared to me to be continually quarrelling; and every little trifle I required for my bath, though given to me with the greatest good-will, seemed to form a subject of jealous dispute between this subterranean pair. The old woman, however, invariably got the best of the argument,—a triumph which I suspect proceeded more from her physical than moral powers: in short, as is occasionally the case, the old gentleman was afraid of his companion; and I observed that his attitude, as he argued, very much resembled that of a cat in a corner, when spitting in the face of a terrier dog. Finding that they did not work happily together, I always managed to prevent both of them coming to me at once. The old woman, however, insisted on preparing my bath; and, with a great pole in one hand, stirring up the water—a thermometer in the other, and a pair of spectacles blinded with steam on her nose, she very good-naturedly brought the temperature of the water to the proper degree, which is said to be 27 of Reaumur.

After I had had my bath, the old wife being out of the way, I one day paid a visit of compliment to her husband, who had shown, by many little attempted attentions, that he was, had he dared, as anxious as his partner to serve me. With great delight, he showed me several bottles full of serpents; and then, opening a wooden box, he took out, as a fisherwoman would handle eels, some very long ones—one of which (first looking over his shoulder to see that a certain personage was away) he put upon a line, which she had stretched across the room for drying clothes. In order, I suppose, to demonstrate to me that the reptile was harmless, he took it off the rope, along which it was moving very quickly; and, without submitting his project for my approbation, he suddenly placed it on my breast, along which it crawled, until, stretching its long neck with half its body into the air, it held on, in a most singular manner, by a single fold in the cloth, which, by a sort of contortion of the vertebrÆ, it firmly grasped.

The old man, apparently highly satisfied with this first act of his entertainment, gravely proceeded to show living serpents of all colours and sizes,—stuffed serpents, and serpents’ skins,—all of which seemed very proper hobbies, to amuse the long winter evenings of the aged servant of Schlangenbad, or the Serpents’ Bath.

At last, however, the fellow’s dry, blanched, wrinkled face began to smile. Grinning, as he slowly mounted on a chair, he took from a high shelf a broad-mouthed, white glass bottle, and then, in a sort of savage ecstasy, pronouncing the word “Baromet!” he placed it in my hands.

The bottle was about half full of dirty water—a few dead flies and crumbs of bread were at the bottom—and near the top there was a small piece of thin wood which went about half across the phial. Upon this slender scaffolding, its fishy eyes staring upwards at a piece of coarse linen, which, being tied round the mouth, served as a cork—the shrivelled skin of its under-jaw moving at every sweltering breath which it took—there sat a large, speckled, living toad!

Like Sterne’s captive, he had not by his side “a bundle of sticks, notched with all the dismal days and nights he had passed there;” yet their sum total was as clearly expressed in the unhealthy colour of the poor creature’s skin; and certainly, in my lifetime, I never had seen what might truly be called—a sick toad.

It was quite impossible to help pitying any living being, confined by itself in so miserable a dungeon. However, the old man’s eyes were beaming with pride and delight at what he conceived to be his own ingenuity—and exclaiming “SchÖnes Wetter!” (fine weather!) he pointed to the wood-work on which the poor creature was sitting—and then he exultingly explained that, so soon as it should be going to rain, the toad would get down into the water. “Baromet!” repeated the old fellow, grinning from ear to ear, as, mounting on the chair, he replaced his prisoner on the shelf.

My first impression was, “coÛte qui coÛte,” to buy this barometer,—carry its poor captive to the largest marsh I could find,—and then, breaking the bottle into shivers, to give him, what toads appreciate better than mankind—liberty; but, on reflecting a moment, I felt quite sure that the old inquisitor would soon procure another subject for torture; and, as with toads as with ourselves, “c'est le premier pas qui coÛte,” I thought it better that this poor imprisoned creature, to a certain degree accustomed to his misery, should exist in it, than that a fresh toad should suffer:—it also occurred to me, that if I should dare to purchase his rude instrument, the ingenious, unfeeling old wretch of a philosopher might be encouraged to make others for sale.

The old bath, or “bad” man, had vipers’ nests, their eggs, and many other Caliban curiosities, which he was desirous to show me; but having seen quite enough for one morning’s visit, and besides, hearing his wife’s tongue coming along the subterranean passage, I left him—her—toad—reptiles, &c., to fret away their existence, while I rose into far brighter regions above them.

After ascending a couple of flights of stairs, I strolled for some time on the little parade, which is close to the entrance of the old “Bad-Haus;” but the benches being all occupied by people listening to the band of music, and besides, not liking the artificial passages of hedges cut, without metaphor, to the quick, I bade adieu to the scene; and, entering the great forest, with which the hills in every direction were clothed to their summits, I ascended a steep, broad road (across which a couple of schlangens glided close by me), until I came to a hut, from which there is a very pleasing home view of the little valley of Schlangenbad. It is certainly a most romantic spot, and that it had appeared so to others was evident, from a marble pillar and inscription which stood on the edge of a precipice before me. The tale it commemorated is simply beautiful. The Count de Grunne, the Dutch Ambassador at Frankfort, having, in the healthy autumn of his life, come to Schlangenbad, with his young wife, was so enchanted with the loveliness of the country, the mildness of the air, and the exquisite softness of the water, that, quite unable to contain himself, on a black marble column he caused to be sculptured, as emblems of himself and his companion, two crested schlangens, eating leaves (apparently a salad) out of the same bowl—with the following pathetic inscription:—

EN
Reconnaissance
Des DÉlicieuses Saisons
PassÉes Ici Ensemble
Par
CHARLES C^te DEGRUNNE
Et
BETSI C^tesse DEGRUNNE.
1830.

Leaving this quiet sentimental bower, and descending the hill, I entered the great pile of buildings of the old Bad-Haus, or Nassauer-Hof, and as I was advancing along one of its endless passages, I passed an open door, from which a busy hum proceeded which clearly proclaimed it to be a school. My grave Mentor-like figure was no sooner observed silently standing at its portal, than its master, a short, slight, hectic-looking lad, scarcely twenty, seemed to feel an unaccountable desire to form my acquaintance. Begging me to enter his small literary dominion, he very modestly requested leave to be permitted to explain to me the nature of the studies he was imparting to his subjects; the little creatures, from their benches, looking at me all the time with the same sort of fear with which mice look into the face of a bull-dog, or frogs at the terrific bill and outline of a stork.

Having, by a slight inclination, accepted this offer, the young Dominie commenced by stating that all the children in Nassau are obliged, by order of the Duke, to go to school, from six to fourteen years of age;—that the parents of a child, who has intentionally missed, are forced to pay two kreuzers the first time, four the second, six the third, and that if they are too poor to pay these fines, they are obliged to work them out in hard labour, or are otherwise punished for their children’s neglect;—that the inhabitants of each village pay the schoolmaster among themselves, in proportions, varying according to their means, but that the Duke prescribes what the children are to learn—namely, religion, singing, reading, writing, Scripture history, the German language, natural history, geography, and accounts;—and that the mode of imparting this education is grounded upon the system of Pestalozzi.

This introductory explanation being concluded, the young master now displayed to me specimens of his scholars’ writing—showed me their slates covered with sums in the first rules of arithmetic—and then calling up several girls and boys, he placed his wand in the hand of each trembling little urchin, who one by one was desired to point out upon maps, which hung against the walls, the great oceans, seas, mountains, and capitals of our globe. Having expressed my unqualified approbation of the zeal and attention with which this excellent young man had evidently been labouring, at the arduous, “never-ending, still beginning” duties of his life, I was about to depart, when, as a last favour, he anxiously intreated me to hear his children, for one moment, sing; and striking the table with his wand, it instantly, as if it had been a tuning fork, called them to attention—at a second blow on the table, they pushed aside their slates and books—at a third, opening their eyes as wide as they could, they inflated their tiny lungs brimfull—and at a fourth blow, in full cry, they all opened, to my no small astonishment, mouths which, in blackness of inside, exactly resembled a pack of King Charles’s spaniels: had the children been drinking ink, their tongues and palates could not have been darker; and though, accompanied by their master, the psalm they were singing was simply beautiful, and though their infantine voices streaming along the endless passages produced a reverberation which was exceedingly pleasing, yet there was something so irresistibly comic in their appearance, that any countenance but my own would have smiled.

The cause of the odd-looking phenomenon suddenly occurred to me,—having, in the morning, observed several peasants, whose trowsers at the knees were stained perfectly black, by their having knelt down to pick bilberries, which grow on the forest-covered hills of Nassau in the greatest profusion. The children had evidently been grazing on the same ground, and as soon as the idea occurred, I observed by their little black fingers that my solution of the dark problem was correct.

Returning to my residence, the New Bad-Haus, the sun, though much less weary than myself, having sunk to rest, I sat alone for some time in one of the bowers of the shrubbery belonging to the building. Occasionally a human figure, scarcely visible from the deep shade of the trees, glided slowly by me, but whether that of a prince or a peasant I neither knew nor cared. What interested me infinitely more, was to observe the fire-flies, which, with small lanterns in their tails, were either soaring close above me, or sparkling among the bushes. The bright emerald green light which they possessed was lovely beyond description, yet apparently they had only received permission to display it so long as they remained on the wing—and as two young ones, gliding before me, rested for a moment on a rose-leaf, at my side, the instant they closed their wings, they were left together in total darkness. Some (probably old ones) steadily sailing, passed me, as if on business, while others, dancing in the air, had evidently no object except pleasure; yet, whether flying in a circle or in a line, each little creature, as it proceeded, gaily illuminated its own way, and like a pure, cheerful, well-conditioned mind, it also shed a trifling lustre on whatever it approached.

As I sat here alone in the dark, I could not drive from my mind the interesting picture I had just been witnessing in the little village school of Schlangenbad.

We are all in England so devotedly attached to that odd, easily pronounced, but difficult to be defined word—liberty, that there is, perhaps, nothing we should all at once set our backs, our faces, and our heads against more, than a national compulsatory system of education, similar to that prescribed in Nassau; and yet, if law has the power to punish crime, there seems at first to exist no very strong reason why it should not also be permitted, by education, to prevent it. Every respectable parent in our country will be ready to admit, that the most certain recipe for making his son a useful, a happy, and a valuable member of society, is carefully to attend to the cultivation of his mind. We all believe that good seeds can be sown there, that bad ones can be eradicated—that ignorance leads a child to error and crime—that his mental darkness, like a town, can be illuminated—that the judgment (his only weapon against his passions) can, like the blacksmith’s arm, by use, be strengthened; and if it be thus universally admitted that education is one of the most valuable properties a rational being can bequeath to his own child, it would seem to follow that a parental government might claim (at least before Heaven) nearly as much right to sentence a child to education, as a criminal to the gallows. Nevertheless, as a curious example of the difference in national taste, it may be observed, that though in England judges and juries can anywhere be found to condemn the body, they would everywhere be observed to shrink at the very idea of chastening the mind; they see no moral or religious objection to imprison the former, but they all agree that it would be a political offence to liberate the latter. Although our poor-laws oblige every parish to feed, house, and clothe its offspring, yet in England it is thought wrong to enforce any national provision for the mind, and yet the Duke of Nassau might argue, that in a civilized community children have no more natural right to be brought up ignorant than naked; in short, that if the mildest government be justified in forcing a man, for decency’s sake, to envelop his body, it might equally claim the power of obliging him, for the welfare, prosperity, and advancement of the community—to develop his mind.

Into so complicated an argument I feel myself quite incompetent to enter; yet were I at this moment to be leaving this world, there is no one assertion I think I could more solemnly maintain—there is no important fact I am more seriously convinced of—and there is no evidence which, from the observation of my whole life, I could more conscientiously deliver, than that, as far as I have been capable of judging, our system of education in England has produced, does produce, and so long as it be persisted in, must produce, the most lamentable political effects.

Strange as it may sound, I believe few people will, on reflection, deny, what a most remarkable difference exists between a man and what is termed mankind—in fact, between the intelligence of the human being and that of the species to which he belongs.

If a man of common or of the commonest abilities be watched throughout a day, it is quite delightful to remark how cleverly he adapts his conduct to the various trifling unforeseen circumstances which occur—how shrewdly, as through a labyrinth, he pursues his own interests, and with what alacrity he can alter his plans, or, as it is vulgarly termed, change his mind, the instant it becomes advisable for him to do so. Appeal to him on any plain subject, and you find him gifted with quick perception, possessed with ready judgment, and with his mind sparkling with intelligence. Now, mix a dozen such men together, and intellect instantly begins to coagulate; in short, by addition you have produced subtraction. One man means what he cannot clearly explain—another ably expresses what he did not exactly mean—one, while disputing his neighbour’s judgment, neglects his own—another indolently reclines his head upon his neighbour’s brain—one does not care to see—another forgets to foresee—in short, though any one pilot could steer the vessel into port, with twelve at the helm she inevitably runs upon the rocks. Now, instead of a dozen men, if anything be committed to the care, judgment, or honour of a large body, or, as it is not improperly termed, a “corporation” of men, their torpor, apathy, and sloth are infinitely increased, and when, instead of a corporation, it be left to that nonentity, a whole nation—the total neglect it meets with is beyond all remedy. In short, the individuals of a community, compared with the community itself, are like a swarm of bees compared with bees that have swarmed or clung together in a lump; and as the countryman stands shaking the dull mass from the bough, one can scarcely believe that it is composed of little, active, intelligent, busy creatures, each armed with a sting as well as with knowledge, and arrangements which one can hardly sufficiently admire. If this theory be correct, it will account at once for our unfortunate system of education in England, which, being everybody’s duty, is therefore nobody’s duty, and which, like

In the evening of a long, toilsome life, if a man were to be obliged solemnly to declare what, without any exception, has been the most lovely thing which on the surface of this earth it has been his good fortune to witness, I conceive that, without hesitation, he might reply—The mind of a young child. Indeed, if we believe that creation, with all its charms, was beneficently made for man, it seems almost to follow that his mind, that mirror in which every minute object is to be reflected, must be gifted with a polish sufficiently high to enable it to receive the lovely and delicate images created for its enjoyment. Accordingly, we observe with what delight a child beholds light—colours—flowers—fruit, and every new object that meets his eye; and we all know that before his judgment be permitted to interfere, for many years he feels, or rather suffers, a thirst for information which is almost insatiable.

He desires, and very naturally desires, to know what the moon is?—what are the stars?—where the rain, wind, and storm come from? With innocent simplicity he asks, what becomes of the light of a candle when it is blown out? Any story or any history he greedily devours; and so strongly does his youthful mind retain every sort of image impressed upon it, that it is well known his after life is often incapable of obliterating the terror depicted there by an old nurse’s tales of ghosts, and hobgoblins of darkness.

Now with their minds in this pure, healthy, voracious state, the sons of all our noblest families, and of the most estimable people in the country, are, after certain preparations, eventually sent to those slaughter-houses of the understanding, our public schools, where, weaned from the charms of the living world, they are nailed to the study of two dead languages—like galley-slaves, they are chained to these oars, and are actually flogged if they neglect to labour. Instead of imbibing knowledge suited to their youthful age, they are made to learn the names of ActÆon’s hounds—to study the life of Alexander’s horse—to know the fate of Alcibiades’s dog;—in short, it is too well known that Dr. Lempriere made 3000l. a-year by the sale of a dictionary, in which he had amassed, “for the use of schools,” tales and rubbish of this description. The poor boy at last “gets,” as it is termed, “into Ovid,” where he is made to study everything which human ingenuity could invent to sully, degrade, and ruin the mind of a young person. The Almighty Creator of the Universe is caricatured by a set of grotesque personages termed gods and goddesses, so grossly sensual, so inordinately licentious, that were they to-day to appear in London, before sunset they would probably be every one of them where they ought to be—at the tread-mill. The poor boy, however, must pore over all their amours, natural and unnatural;—he must learn the birth, parentage, and education of each, with the biography of their numerous offspring, earthly as well as unearthly. He must study love-letters from the heavens to the earth, and metamorphoses which have almost all some low, impure object. The only geography he learns is “the world known to the ancients.” Although a member of the first maritime nation on the globe, he learns no nautical science but that possessed by people who scarcely dared to leave their shores; all his knowledge of military life is that childish picture of it which might fairly be entitled “war without gunpowder.” But even the little which on these subjects he does learn, is so mixed up with fable, that his mind gets puzzled and debilitated to such a degree, that he becomes actually unable to distinguish truth from falsehood, and when he reads that Hannibal melted the Alps with vinegar, he does not know whether it be really true or not.

In this degraded state, with the energy and curiosity of their young minds blunted—actually nauseating the intellectual food which they had once so naturally desired, a whole batch of boys at the age of about fourteen[1] are released from their schools to go on board men of war, where they are to strive to become the heroes of their day. They sail from their country ignorant of almost everything that has happened to it since the days of the Romans—having been obliged to look upon all the phenomena of nature, as well as the mysteries of art, without explanation, their curiosity for information on such subjects has subsided. They lean against the capstan, but know nothing of its power—they are surrounded by mechanical contrivances of every sort, but understand them no more than they do the stars in the firmament. They steer from one country to another, ignorant of the customs, manners, prejudices, or languages of any; they know nothing of the effect of climate—it requires almost a fever to drive them from the sun; in fact they possess no practical knowledge. The first lesson they learn from adversity is their own guiltless ignorance, and no sooner are they in real danger, than they discover how ill spent has been the time they have devoted to the religion of the heathen—how vain it is in affliction to patter over the names of ActÆon and his hounds!

That in spite of all these disadvantages, a set of high-bred, noble-spirited young men eventually become, as they really do, an honour to their country, is no proof that their early education has not done all in its power to prevent them. But, to return to those we left at our public schools.

As these boys rise, they become, as we all know, more and more conversant in the dead languages, until the fatal period arrives, when, proudly laden with these two panniers, they proceed to one of our universities. Arriving, for instance, at Oxford, they find a splendid high street, magnificently illuminated with gas, filled with handsome shops, traversed by the mail, macadamized, and, like every other part of our great commercial country, beaming with modern intelligence. In this street, however, they are not permitted to reside, but, conducted to the right and left, they meander among mouldering monastic-looking buildings, until they reach the cloisters of the particular college to which they are sentenced to belong. By an ill-judged misnomer, they are from this moment encouraged, even by their preceptors, to call each other men; and a man of seventeen, “too tall for school,” talks of another man of eighteen, as gravely as I always mention the name of my prototype Methusalem. What their studies are, will sufficiently appear from what is required of them, when they come before the public as candidates for their degrees. At this examination, which is to give them, throughout their country, the rank of finished scholars, these self-entitled men are gravely examined first of all in Divinity,—and then, as if in scorn of it, almost in the same breath, they descant about the God of this vice, and the God of that; in short, they are obliged to translate any two heathen authors in Latin, and any other two in Greek, they themselves may select. They are next examined in Aristotle’s moral philosophy, and their examination, like their education, being now concluded, their minds, being now decreed to be brimfull, they are launched into their respective grades of society, as accomplished, polished men, who have reaped the inestimable advantages of a good classical education. But it is not these gentlemen that I presume to ridicule; on the contrary, I firmly believe that the 1200 students, who at one time are generally at Oxford, are as high-minded, as highly talented, as anxious to improve themselves, as handsome, and, in every sense of the word, as fine a set of lads as can anywhere be met with in a body on the face of the globe. I also know that all our most estimable characters, all the most enlightened men our country has ever produced, have, generally speaking, been members of one of our universities; but, in spite of all this, will any reasonable being seriously maintain that the workmanship has been equal to the materials? I mean, that their education has been equal to themselves?

Let any one weigh what they have not learnt against what they have, and he will find that the difference is exactly that which exists between creation itself and a satchel of musty books. I own they are skilfully conversant in the latter; I own that they have even deserved prizes for having made verses in imitation of Sappho—odes in imitation of Horace—epigrams after the model of the Anthologia, as well as after the mode of Martial; but what has the university taught them of the former? Has it even informed them of the discovery of America? Has it given them the power of conversing with the peasant of any one nation in Europe? Has it explained to them any one of the wonderful works of creation? Has it taught them a single invention of art? Has it shown the young landed proprietor how to measure the smallest field on his estate? Has it taught him even the first rudiments of economy? Has it explained to him the principle of a common pump? Has it fitted him in any way to stand in that distinguished situation which by birth and fortune he is honestly entitled to hold? Has it given him any agricultural information, any commercial knowledge, any acquaintance with mankind, or with business of any sort or kind; and, lastly, has it made him modestly sensible of his own ignorance?—or has it, on the contrary, done all in its power to make him feel not only perfectly satisfied with his own acquirements, but contempt for those whose minds are only filled with plain useful knowledge?

But it will be proudly argued, “The University has taught him Divinity!” In theory, I admit it may have done so; but, in all his terms, has the student practically learnt as much Omnipotence as the hurricane could explain to him in five minutes? To teach young lads the simple doctrines of Christianity, is it advisable to hide from their minds creation? It is advisable to allow them to remain out of their colleges till midnight? But taking leave of the university, let us, for a moment, consider the political effects of its cramped, short-sighted, narrow-minded system.

On quitting their colleges, our young men, instead of being sensible, that although they have read much that is ornamental, their education has scrupulously avoided all that is useful—instead of modestly feeling that they have to make up for lost time, and to fight their way from nothing to distinction like subaltern officers in our army, or like midshipmen in the navy, they have very great reason to consider that, far from being literary vessels, rudely put together, they are launched into society as perfect as a frigate from its dock!

With respect to the drudgery of gaining honours, they feel that they already possess them, can produce them, and true enough, they show 1st class, 2nd class, and 3rd class honours, which are as current in the country as the coin of the realm; and, with respect to their education being imperfect, by universal consent, it has for centuries been coupled with the most flattering adjectives;—it is termed polite—elegant—accomplished—good—complete—excellent—regular—classical, &c., &c. In literary creation these young men conceive that they are luminaries, not specks—ornaments, not blemishes! not merely in their own opinions, but by universal consent and acclamation. Their political place is undeniably, therefore, the helm, not before the mast; they are to guide, conduct, steer the vessel of the state, not ignobly labour at its oar!

Accordingly, when they take their places in both houses of Parliament, plunging at once into their own native element, they rise up in the immediate presence of noblemen and gentlemen who not only boast of having received exactly the same education as themselves, but who, as youths, have proudly won the self-same honours which they enjoy; and I here very humbly beg leave again to repeat, that because our Parliament maintains, and always has maintained, a front rank of men of undaunted resolution, transcendent abilities, brilliant natural genius, and clear, comprehensive, enlightened minds, it does not follow that the system of our public schools and universities must necessarily be practically good. On the contrary, it only proves that human institutions can no more extinguish the native virtue, talent, and integrity of a country, than they can hide from the world the light of the sun; but education can misdirect, though it cannot annihilate; it can give the national mind a hankering for unwholesome instead of wholesome food,—it can encourage a passion for useless instead of useful information. On its course high-bred lads may be trained to race against each other, until the vain object they have strived for can never in after life re-appear, but their blood warms within them.

Now supposing, for a single moment, that English education be admitted to be as useless and dangerous as I have endeavoured to describe it, let us consider what might naturally be expected to be its practical political effects.

In our two houses of Parliament, classical eloquence would unavoidably become the order of the day; and classical allusions, when neatly expressed, would always receive that heartfelt cheer which even the oldest among us are unable to withhold from what reminds us of the pleasures and attachments of our early days. Thus encouraged, young statesmen would feel their power rather than their inexperience; and, with their minds stored with knowledge declared to possess intrinsic value, they would not be very backward in displaying it. Language, rather than matter, would thus become the object of emulation—speeches would swell into orations—and, in this contention and conflict of genius, men of cleverness, ready wit, brilliant imagination, retentive memory, caustic reply, and last, though not least, soundness of constitution, would rise to the surface, far above those who, with much deeper reflection, much heavier sense, more sterling knowledge, and more powerful judgment, were yet found to be wanting in activity in their parts of speech. Baffled, therefore, in their laconic attempts to expound their uninteresting, ledger-like, unfashionable opinions, this useful class of men would probably, by silence or otherwise, retire from the unequal contest, which would become more and more of an art, until extraordinary talent was required to carry political questions so plain and simple, that were votes mutely to be given by any set of hum-drum men, there would scarcely be a difference in their opinions.

In the midst of this civil war, a young man, scarcely one-and-twenty would be very likely rapidly to rise to be the Prime Minister of our great commercial country! for although, if this world teaches us any one moral, it is, that youth and inexperience are synonymous; yet when talent only be the palm, surely none have better right to contend for it than the young!

Seated on the exalted pinnacle which he has most fairly and honourably attained, if not by general acclamation, at least by the applauding voice of the majority, he must, of course, stand against the intellectual tempest which has unnaturally brought a person of his age to the surface. Accordingly, by the main strength of his youthful genius, by his admitted superiority of talent, this beardless pilot would probably triumphantly maintain his place at the helm—requiring, however, support from those of his admirers most approaching in eloquence to himself. To obtain the services of some great orator, he would (copying the system of his opponents) be induced to appoint a man, for instance, Secretary for the Colonies, who on this earth had never reached the limits even of its temperate zone; another, who had not heard a shot fired, or even seen a shell in the air, would, perhaps, be created Master-General of our Ordnance; in short, talent being the weapon or single-stick of Parliament, he would, like others before him, arm himself with it at any cost, and thus reign triumphant.

However, without supposing such an extreme case, let us fearlessly recall to mind a miserable fact almost of yesterday. In the fatal year 1825, the British government conceived the purely classical and highly poetical idea of “bringing a new world into existence!” Most people will remember with what flowery eloquence the elegant project was laid before Parliament, and how loudly and generally it was cheered—the blind were led by the blind—all our senators being equally charmed at the splendid possibility of their thus politically dabbling in creation. The truth or moral, however, came upon us at last, like the simmoon upon the traveller who ignorantly ventures on the deserts of Africa. The country almost foundered, and though she has, to a certain degree, recovered from the shock, yet thousands of widows, orphans, and people of small incomes, are to this day, in indigence and sorrow, secretly lamenting the hour in which the high-flown parliamentary project was disseminated.

The charity, pater-noster system of education pursued to this day at our universities and public schools has produced other historical facts, which it is now equally out of our power to obliterate, atone for, or deny. For instance, we all know that in five years Charles II. touched 23,601 of his subjects for the evil;—that our bishops invented (just as Ovid wrote his “Metamorphoses”) a sort of heathen service for the occasion;—that the unchristianlike, superstitious ceremony was performed in public; and that as soon as prayers were ended, we are told, “The Duke of Buckingham brought a towel, and the Earl of Pembroke a basin and ewer, who, after they had made obeisance to his Majesty, kneeled down till his Majesty had washed.”

Again, everybody knows that Amy Drury and her daughter, eleven years of age, were tried before “the great and good Sir Matthew Hale,” then Lord Chief Baron, for witchcraft, and were convicted and executed at Bury St. Edmund’s, principally on the evidence of Sir Thomas Brown, one of the first physicians and scholars of his day: also that Dr. Wiseman, an eminent surgeon of that period, in writing on scrofula, says—“However, I must needs profess that His Majesty (Charles II.) cureth more in any one year than all the chirurgeons of London have done in an age.”

The above degrading facts are moral tragedies, which were not acted in a dark corner, by a few obscure strolling individuals—not even by any great political faction,—but the audience was the British nation—the performers the King on his throne, the bishops, the nobility, the judges, the physicians, the philosophers of the day. In short, theory and practice, hand in hand, both prove to the whole world the double error in our system of education. Says theory—if young people, instead of being taught to look at the ground under their feet, at the heavens above their head, or at creation around them, are forced by the rod to study events that never happened, speeches that never were made, metamorphoses that never took place, forms of worship and creeds ridiculous and impious, such a nation must inevitably grow up narrow-minded, ignorant, superstitious, and cruel. Says practice—this prophecy has been most fatally fulfilled; and accordingly, in England, people have believed in witchcraft—have put savage faith in the King’s touch,—and, under the name of a mild and merciful religion, they have burnt each other to ashes at the stake!

The mute steadiness of British troops under fire,—the total want of bluster or bravado in our naval actions, where, as we all know,

the laconic manner in which business all over England is transacted (millions being exchanged with little more than a nod of assent); in short, our national respect for silent conduct, form a most extraordinary contrast with the flatulent eloquence of our Parliamentary debates.

But to return to our houses of Parliament: shall we now proceed to calculate what would be the expense of such a system of government or misgovernment as that which has just been shown to have proceeded, not from the imbecility of individuals, but from the system of false education maintained by our public schools and universities? No! no! for the history of our country has already solved this great problem, and, at this moment, does it record to our posterity, as well as to the whole world, that the expense of a great mercantile nation, looking behind it instead of before it—the price of its statesmen studying ancient poets instead of modern discoveries—of mistaking the “orbis veteribus cognitus” for the figure of the earth, amounts to neither more nor less than a national debt of eight hundred millions of English pounds sterling! In short, economy having fatally been classed at our universities among the vulgar arts, the current expenses of our statesmen have naturally enough been ordered to be put down to their children, just as their college bills were carelessly ordered to be forwarded to their fathers.

However, so long as a nation is willing to purchase at the above enormous, or at any still greater price, the luxury of reading Greek and Latin poetry, the misfortune at first appears to be only pecuniary; and it might almost further be argued, that a nation, like an individual, ought to be allowed to spend its money according to its own whim or fancy; but, though this may or may not be true so far as our money be concerned, yet there is an event which must arrive, and in England this event has just arrived, when a continuance of such a mode of education must inevitably destroy our church, aristocracy, funds; in short, every thing which a well-disposed mind loves, venerates, and is desirous to uphold.

The fearful event to which I allude, is that of the lower classes of people becoming enlightened.

In spite of all that party spirit angrily asserts to the contrary, most firmly do I believe that there does not exist, in England, any revolutionary spirit worth being afraid of. In a rich commercial country, the idle, the profligate, and the worthless will always be anxious to level the well-earned honours, as well as plunder the wealth amassed by the brave, intelligent, and industrious; but every respectable member of society, with the coolness of judgment natural to our country, must feel that he possesses a stake, and enjoys advantages which I firmly believe he is desirous to maintain; in fact, not only the good feeling, but the good sense of the country, support the fabric of our society, which we all know, like the army, derives its spirit from possessing various honours (never mind whether they be of intrinsic value or not) which we are all more or less desirous to obtain.

But if those who wear these honours degrade themselves—if our upper classes culpably desert their own standards—if they shall continue to insist on giving to their children an elegant, useless education, while the tradesman is filling his son with steady useful knowledge—if our aristocracy, with the Goule’s horrid taste, will obstinately feed itself on dead languages, while the lower classes are healthily digesting fresh wholesome food—if writing, arithmetic, modern geography, arts, sciences, and discoveries of all sorts are to continue (as they hitherto have been) to be most barbarously disregarded at our public schools and universities, while they are carefully attended to and studied by the poor—the moment must arrive when the dense population of our country will declare that they can no longer afford to be governed by classical statesmen; and, with an equally honest feeling, they will further declare, they begin to find it difficult to look up to people who have ceased to be morally their superiors. That the lower orders of people in England are rising not only in their own estimation, but in the honest opinion of the world, is proved by the singular fact, that the wood-cuts of our Penny Magazine (so rapidly printed by one of Clowes’s great steam-presses) are sent, in stereotype, to Germany, France, and Belgium, where they are published, as with us, for the instruction of the lower classes. The same Magazine is also sent to America (page for page) stereotyped. The common people of England are thus proudly disseminating their knowledge over the surface of the globe, while our upper classes, by an infatuation which, without any exception, is the greatest phenomenon in the civilized world, are still sentencing their children to heathen, obscene, and useless instruction; and, though it has beneficently been decreed “Let there be light!” our universities seriously maintain that the religious as well as moral welfare of this noble country depends upon its continuing in intellectual darkness.

It is now much too late in the day to argue whether the education of the lower classes be a political advantage or not. One might as well stand on the Manchester rail-road to stop its train, as to endeavour to prevent that. The people, whether we like it or not, will be enlightened; and, therefore, without bewailing the disorder, our simple and only remedy is, by resolutely breaking up the system of our public schools and universities, to show the people that we have nobly determined to become enlightened too.

The English gentleman (a name which, in the army, navy, hunting-field, or in any other strife or contention, has always shown itself able to beat men of low birth) will then hold his ground in the estimation of his tenants, and continue to inhabit his estate. The English nobleman, and the noble Englishman, will continue to be synonymous—a well-educated clergy will continue to be revered—the throne, as it hitherto has been, will be loyally supported—our mercantile honour will be saved—the hopes of the radical will be irretrievably ruined—and when the misty danger at which we now tremble has brightened into intellectual sunshine, remaining, as we must do (as long as we continue to be the most industrious), the wealthiest and first commercial nation on the globe, we shall remember, and history will transmit to our children, that old-fashioned prophecy of Faulconbridge, which so truly says,

I had retired to rest much pleased with Schlangenbad and all that belonged to it, when about midnight I was awakened by a general slamming of doors, windows, and shutters, occasioned by a most violent gale of wind, and on opening my eyes, the bright moonlight scene, which, without even moving my head, I beheld, was mysteriously grand and imposing. Although the moon, which had just risen, was as I lay not discernible through my windows, yet its silvery light beamed so strongly that the two little white-washed mill-cottages in the valley seemed to be even brighter than I had observed them during the day. But what particularly attracted my attention was the apparent writhing of those great hills which, as if they had only just been rent asunder, hemmed me in. Every tree on them was bending and waving from the violence of the squall, and as cloud after cloud rapidly hurried across the moon, sometimes, obscuring and then suddenly restoring to my view the strange prospect, the uncertainty of this undulating movement gave a supernatural appearance to the scene, which more resembled the fiction of a dream, or of a romance, than any possible effect of wind on trees. The clean, glistening foliage seemed scarcely able to stand against the gale, which still continued to increase, until a loud peal of thunder, followed by a few heavy drops, announced a calm, which was no sooner established, than the light of the moon appeared to be converted by Nature into a heavy deluge of rain. For some few moments, I listened, I believe, to the refreshing sound, and to the rushing of the stream beneath me; but as the darkness around me increased, my eyes closed, and I again dropped off to sleep.

The little society of Schlangenbad, like that of most of the towns and villages in this part of Germany, is composed of Lutherans, Catholics, and Jews. The two former sects have each a place of worship allotted to them in the Old Bad-Haus or Nassauer-Hof, and their two chambers, standing nearly opposite to each other, remind me very strongly of those twin-roads which in England often lead from one little country town to another.

On each is the stranger invited to travel—one boasts that it is the nearest by half a quarter of a mile, the other brags that “it avoids the hill.” Such is the distinction between the two Christian sects at Schlangenbad;—both start from the same point—both strain for the same goal, and yet they querulously refuse to travel together.

After having spent two or three days in rambling up and down the valley, searching for and admiring its sequestered beauties, like Rasselas, I felt anxious to scale the mountains which surrounded me, and accordingly inquired for a path, which, I was told, would extricate me from my happy valley; however, after I had continued on it some way, fancying I could attain the summit by a shorter cut, I attempted to ascend the mountain by a straight course. For some time I appeared to succeed pretty well, feeling every moment encouraged at observing how high I had risen above the grassy valley beneath; however, the mountain grew steeper, and the trees thicker and larger, until I began to find that I had a much heavier job on my hands than I had bargained for; nevertheless, upwards I proceeded, winding my way through some magnificent oak timber, until at last I attained actually the top of the mountain: yet so surrounded was I by trees, that, very much to my disappointment, I found it impossible to see ten yards before me. For a considerable distance I walked along the ridge, hoping to find some gap or open spot which would enable me to get a glimpse of the country beneath me, but in vain,—for, go where I would, I was like a reptile crawling through a field of standing corn; in short, nothing could I see but trees, and even they appeared to be of no value, as a great number of stately oaks were in every direction rotting just as if they were beyond the reach and ken of mankind. As I was winding between these timber trees, hoping, at least, to see deer or wild game of some sort, it began to rain, and though I had no disposition, on that account, to abandon my object, yet absolutely not knowing where to seek it, I was almost in despair, when it occurred to me to climb one of the trees; and the idea had no sooner entered my head, than I felt quite angry with myself for not having thought of it before: however, I was some little time before I could find one to suit, for to swarm up the huge body of any of the great oaks would have been quite impossible. As soon as I found a tree adapted to my purpose and my age, I climbed it in spite of the rain, and I was no sooner in the position of King Charles the Second, than I witnessed one of the most splendid views that can be well conceived.

Beneath me was the Rhine, glistening and meandering in its course, while nearly opposite and beneath me lay Bingen, which appeared to be basking on the banks of a lake. Almost every one who has travelled on the Rhine speaks in raptures of this part of it, yet the view I enjoyed, seated on the limb of my tree, was altogether superior to what they could have witnessed, because at one view I beheld the beauties which they had only successively admired. The hills on which I was placed were clothed to their summits with foliage, feathering down to the very water’s edge; and instead of the little portion of the river, which, as one niggles along, is seen bit by bit from the steam-boat, its whole course seemed to be displaying itself to my view. The opposite shore was comparatively flat, and as far as I could see, a boundless fertile wine country appeared to extend there. The shower, which was still falling in heavy drops upon my tree, only belonged to the mountain on which it stood, for the whole country and river beneath were basking in sunshine. It was really delightful to enjoy at once the sight of so many beautiful objects, and I hardly knew whether to admire most the lovely little islands which seemed floating at anchor in the Rhine, or the vast expanse of continent which was prostrate before me; but without continuing the description, any one who will only look in his map for Bingen, and then imagine an old man seated in the clouds above it, will perceive what a salient angle I occupied, and what a magnificent prospect I enjoyed.

As soon as I had imbibed a sufficient dose of it, I commenced my descent, which was of course easy enough when compared with the fatigue I had suffered in attaining the object. The trees were dripping, and the mossy surface of the ground made my feet equally wet; however, rapidly descending, I soon got first a glimpse of my own window in the New Bad-Haus, then a peep of the little quiet mills whose wheels I saw slowly turning under the clear bright water that sparkled above them; and really when I at last got down to the green secluded valley of Schlangenbad, I felt that I would not exchange its peaceful tranquillity for the possession of all the splendid objects I had just witnessed.

Yet in viewing this humble scene, as well as in revelling over that magnificent prospect where space and wood seemed to be infinite, the very air smelling of health and freedom, there was a small feature in the picture which gave me very painful reflections. There are perhaps many who will say, that two or three peasants’ roofs are specks, which (whatever sad secrets may lie hidden beneath them) ought not to disturb the mind of the spectator, being objects much too insignificant to be worthy of his notice; yet the more I observed the splendour of the mountain scenery,—the more the verdant valley seemed to rejoice,—the more the wild deer, dashing by me, appeared to enjoy the gifts of creation,—the more difficult did I find it to forget the abject poverty of the two or three poor families which were inhabiting this smiling valley; and (on the principle of not muzzling the ox that treadeth out the corn) it certainly did seem to me hard, that, surrounded as these poor people are by an almost boundless forest of timber trees, quantities of which, stag-headed, are actually returning to the dust from which they sprung, they should by the laws of their country be rigidly forbidden to collect fuel to cheer the inclemency of the winter, or even with their fingers to tear up a little wild grass beneath the trees for their cow.

Considering that the storm, like the wind, cometh where it listeth, afflicting the poor man even more than the well-sheltered rich one, it seems hard, in districts so nearly uninhabited, that when the oak tree is levelled with the ground, the mountain peasant who has weathered the gale should be prevented from plundering this wreck of the desolate forest in which he has been born. Nevertheless, that such is the case, will be but too evident from the following short extracts from a very long list of forest penalties, rigidly enforced by the Duke of Nassau:—

It may appear to many people quite impossible that these penalties can be enforced in desolate districts so nearly uninhabited: nevertheless, by a sort of diamond-cut-diamond system, the Duke’s forest officers have various cunning ways of detecting those who infringe them, and the fact is that fuel and wild grass are very often wanting in a solitary hovel absolutely environed by both. I myself was one day told that I had become liable to be fined eighteen kreuzers, because in a reverie I had allowed a rough pony I was riding to bend his head down and eat a few mouthfuls of grass; and another day, seeing a man who was driving the ass I was riding rub with mud the end of a switch he had just cut, I was told by him, in answer to my inquiry, that he did so in order that it might not be proved he had cut it. However, lest these trifling data should not be deemed sufficient proof, I will at once add, that I have myself seen the peasants lying in the Duke’s prison for having offended against these petty laws.

I took some pains to inquire what possible objection there could be to the poor people collecting a few dead leaves, or the rank wild grass which grows here and there all over the forest, and I was told that both of these by rotting are supposed to manure the trees, yet, as I have already stated, quantities of the largest timber are to be seen decaying in every direction.

In a crowded, populous country, all descriptions of property must be clearly distinguished and most sternly protected; but in a state of nature, or in districts so nearly approaching to it as many parts of Nassau, the same rule is not applicable—the same necessity does not exist; and under such circumstances, the punishment inflicted upon a child for tearing up wild grass with his hands most certainly is (and who can deny it?) greater than the offence.

It is with no hostile or bad feeling towards the Duke of Nassau that I mention these details: he is a personage much beloved in his duchy, and I believe with great reason is he respected there; yet his forest laws no one surely can admire; and though custom certainly has sanctioned them,—though the humble voice of those who have suffered under them has hitherto been too feeble to reach his ears,—and though those about his court and person are but little disposed to awaken his attention to such mean complaints,—yet no one can calmly see and foresee the state of political feeling in Germany without admitting that the most humble traveller (and why not an English one?) may render the Duke of Nassau a friendly service, by bringing into daylight, unveiled by flattery, an act of oppression in his government, which, while it has most probably escaped his attention, is seditiously hoarded up by his political enemies to form part of that fulcrum which they are secretly working at, in order to effect by it, if possible, his downfall. A grievance, like a wound, often only requires to be laid open to be cured; whereas if, deeply seated, it be concealed from view, like gunpowder imbedded in a rock, when once the spark does reach it, it explodes with a violence proportionate to the power which would vainly have attempted to smother it in the earth.