The day at last arrived for my departure from the green, happy little valley of Schlangenbad. Whether or not its viper baths really possess the effect ascribed to them, of tranquillizing the nerves, I will not presume to declare; but that the loneliness and loveliness of the place can fascinate, as well as tranquillize, the mind, I believe as firmly, as I know that the Schlangenbad water rubs from the body the red rust of Langen-Schwalbach.

Those who, on the tiny surface of this little world, please themselves with playing what they call “the great game of life,” would of course abhor a spot in which they could neither be envied nor admired; but to any grovelling-minded person, who thinks himself happy when he is quiet and clean, I can humbly recommend this valley, as a retreat exquisitely suited to his taste.

After casting a farewell glance round apartments to which I felt myself most unaccountably attached, descending the long staircase of the New Bad-Haus, I walked across the shrubbery to my carriage, around which had assembled a few people, who, I was very much surprised to find, were witnessing my departure with regret!

Luy, who had followed my (I mean Katherinchen’s) footsteps so many a weary hour, strange as it may sound (and so contrary to what the ass must have felt), was evidently sorry I was going. The old “Bad” man’s countenance looked as serious and as wrinkled on the subject as the throat of his toad—his wan, sallow-faced Jezebel of a wife stood before the carriage steps waving her lean hand in sorrow, and the young maid of the Bad-Haus, who had made my bed, merely because I had troubled her for a longer period than any other visiter, actually began to shed some tears. The whole group begged permission to kiss my hand; and there was so much kind feeling evinced, that I felt quite relieved when I found that the postilion and his horses had spoiled the picture, in short, that we were trotting and trumpeting along the broad road which leads to Wiesbaden.

As I had determined on visiting the Duke of Nassau’s hunting-seat “Die Platte” in my way to Wiesbaden, after proceeding about four miles, I left the carriage in the high road, and walking through the woods towards my object, I passed several very large plantations of fir-trees which had been so unusually thick that they were completely impervious, even to a wild boar; for, not only were the trees themselves merely a few inches asunder, but their branches, which feathered to the ground, interlaced one with another until they formed altogether an impenetrable jungle. Through this mass of vegetation, narrow paths about three feet broad were cut in various directions to enable the deer to traverse the country.

In passing through the beech forest, I observed that the roads or cuts were often as much as forty or fifty feet in breadth, and every here and there the boughs and foliage were artificially entwined in a very ingenious manner, leaving small loop-holes through which the Duke, his visiters, or his huntsmen, might shoot at the game as they wildly darted by. A single one of these verdant batteries might possibly be observed and avoided by the cautious, deep-searching eye of the deer, but they exist all over the woods in such numbers, that the animals, accustomed to them from their birth, can fear nothing from them, until the fatal moment arrives, when their experience, so dearly bought, arrives too late.

After advancing for about an hour through these green streets, I came suddenly upon the Duke’s hunting-seat, the Platte, a plain white stone, cubic building, which, as if disdaining gardens, flowerbeds, or any artificial embellishment, stands alone, on a prominent edge of the Taunus hills, looking down upon Wiesbaden, Mainz, Frankfort, and over the immense flat, continental-looking country which I have already described. Its situation is very striking, and though of course it is dreadfully exposed to the winter’s blast, yet, as a sporting residence, during the summer or autumn months, nothing I think can surpass the beauty and unrestrained magnificence of its view.

Before the entrance door, in attitudes of great freedom, there are two immense bronze statues of stags, most beautifully executed, and on entering the apartments, which are lofty and grand, every article of furniture, as well as every ornament, is ingeniously composed of pieces, larger or smaller, of buck-horn. Immense antlers, one above another, are ranged in the hall, as well as on the walls of the great staircase; and certainly when a sportsman comes to the Platte on a visit to the Duke of Nassau, everything his eyes can rest on, not only reminds him of his favourite pursuit, but seems also to promise him as much of it as the keenest hunter can desire: in short, without the slightest pretension, the Platte is nobly adapted to its purpose, and with great liberality it is open at almost all times to the inspection of “gentlemen sportsmen” and travellers from all quarters of the globe. About twelve hundred feet beneath it, in a comparatively flat country, bounded on two sides by the Rhine and the Main, lies Wiesbaden, the capital of the duchy of Nassau, the present seat of its government, and the spot by far the most numerously attended as a watering-place.

Looking down upon it from the Platte, this town or city is apparently about three-quarters of an English mile square, one quarter of this area being covered with a rubbishy old, the remainder with a staring formal new town, composed of streets of white stone houses, running at right angles to each other. As I first approached it, it appeared to me to be as hot, as formal, and as uninteresting a place as I ever beheld: however, as soon as I entered it, I very soon found out that its inhabitants and indeed its visiters entertain a very different opinion of the place, they pronouncing it to be one of the most fashionable, and consequently most agreeable, watering-places in all Germany.

In searching for a lodging, I at once went to most of the principal hotels, several of which I found to be grievously afflicted with smells, which (though I most politely bowed to every person I met in the passage) it did not at all suit me to encounter. At one place, as an excuse for not taking the unsavoury suite of apartments which were offered to me, I ventured quietly to remark, that they were very much dearer than those I had just left. The master at once admitted the fact, but craning himself up into the proudest attitude his large stomach would admit of, he observed—“Mais—Monsieur! savez-vous que vous aurez À Wiesbaden plus d'amusement dans une heure, que vous n'auriez À Schlangenbad dans un an?...”

In the horrid atmosphere in which I stood, I had no inclination to argue on happiness or any subject; so hastening into the open air, I continued my search, until finding, the landlord at the Englischen Hof civil, and exceedingly anxious to humour all my old-fashioned English whims and oddities, I accepted the rooms he offered me, and thus for a few days dropped my anchor in the capital of the duchy of Nassau.

About twelve thousand strangers are supposed annually to visit this gay watering-place, and consequently, to pen up all this fashionable flock within the limits of so small a town, requires no little ramming, cramming, and good arrangement. The dinner hour, or time of the tables-d'hÔte, as at Langen Schwalbach, Schlangenbad, and indeed all other places in Germany, was one o'clock, and the crowds of hungry people who at that hour, following their appetites, were in different directions seen slowly but resolutely advancing to their food, was very remarkable. Voluntarily enlisting into one of these marching regiments, I allowed myself to be carried along with it, I knew not where, until I found myself, with an empty stomach and a napkin on my knees, quietly seated at one of three immense long tables, in a room with above 250 people, all secretly as hungry as myself.

The quantity of food and attention bestowed upon me for one florin filled me with astonishment; “and certainly,” said I to myself, “a man may travel very far indeed, before he will find provisions and civility cheaper than in the duchy of Nassau!” The meat alone which was offered to me, if it had been thrown at my head raw, would have been not only a most excellent bargain, but much more than any one could possibly have expected for the money; but when it was presented to me, cooked up with sauces of various flavours, attended with omelettes, fruits, tarts, puddings, preserves, fish, &c. &c., and served with a quantity of politeness and civility which seemed to be infinite, I own I felt that in the scene around me there existed quite as much refreshment and food for the mind as for the body.

It is seldom or ever that I pay the slightest attention to dinner conversation, the dishes, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, being, in my opinion, so very much better; however, much against my will, I overheard some people talking of a duel, which I will mention, hoping it may tend to show by what disgusting, fiend-like sentiments this practice can be disgraced.

A couple of Germans, having quarrelled about some beautiful lady, met with sabres in their hands to fight a duel. The ugly one, who was of course the most violent of the two, after many attempts to deprive his hated adversary, of his life, at last aimed a desperate blow at his head, which, though it missed its object, yet fell upon, and actually cut off, the good-looking man’s nose. It had scarcely reached the ground, when its owner, feeling that his beauty was gone, instantly threw away his sword, and with both arms extended, eagerly bent forward with the intention to pick up his own property and replace it; but the ugly German no sooner observed the intention, than, darting forwards with the malice of the devil himself, he jumped upon the nose, and before its master’s face crushed it and ground it to atoms!

In strolling very slowly about the town, after dinner, the first object which aroused my curiosity was a steam I observed rising through the iron gratings, which at the corners of the streets, covered the main drains or common sewers of the town. At first I thought it proceeded from washerwomen, pig-scalders, or some such artificial cause; but I no sooner reached the great Koch-brunnen (boiling spring), than I learnt it was the natural temperature of the Wiesbaden waters that had thus attracted my attention.

As I stood before this immense cauldron, with eyes staring at the volume of steam which was arising from it, and with ears listening to a civil person who was voluntarily explaining to me that there were fifteen other springs in the town, their temperature being at all times of the year about 140° of Fahrenheit, I could not help feeling a sort of unpleasant sensation, similar to what I had experienced on the edges of Etna and Vesuvius; in short, I had been so little accustomed to live in a town heated by subterranean fire, that it just crossed my mind, whether, in case the engineer below, from laziness, should put on too many coals at once, or from carelessness should neglect to keep open his proper valves, an explosion might not take place, which would suddenly send me, Koch-brunnen, Wiesbaden, and Co., on a shooting excursion to the Duke’s lofty hunting-seat, the Platte. The ground in the vicinity of these springs is so warm that in winter the snow does not remain upon it; and formerly, when these waters used to flow from the town into a small lake, from not freezing, it became in hard weather the resort of birds of all descriptions: indeed, even now, they say that that part of the Rhine into which the Wiesbaden waters eventually flow, is observed to be always remarkably free from ice.

Wiesbaden, inhabited by people called Mattiaci, was not only known to the Romans, but fortified by the twenty-second legion, who also built baths, the remains of which exist to the present day. Even in such remote ages, it was observed that these waters retained their heat longer than common water, or salt water, of the same specific gravity, heated to the same degree; indeed, Pliny remarked—“Sunt et Mattiaci in Germania fontes calidi, quorum haustus triduo fervet.”

The town of Wiesbaden is evidently one which does not appreciate the luxury of “home, sweet home;” for it is built, not for itself, but for strangers; and though most people loudly admire the size of the buildings, yet, to my mind, there is something very melancholy in seeing houses so much too fine for the style of inhabitants to whom they belong. A city of lodging-houses, like an army of mercenaries, may to each individual be a profitable speculation, but no brilliant uniform, or external show, can secretly compensate for the want of national self-pride which glows in the heart of a soldier, standing under his country’s colours, or in the mind of a man living consistently in his own little home.

About twenty years ago, the inhabitants of Wiesbaden were pent up in narrow, dirty streets, surrounded by swampy ditches and an old Roman wall. A complete new town has since been erected, and accommodation has thus been afforded for upwards of 12,000 strangers, the population of the place, men, women, and children included, scarcely amounting to 8000 souls.

During the gay season, of course all is bustle and delight; but I can conceive nothing less cheerful than such a place must become, when all its motley visiters having flown away, winter begins to look it in the face; however, certainly the inhabitants of Wiesbaden do not seem to view the subject at all in this point of view, for they all talk with great pride of their fine new town, and strut about their large houses like children wearing men’s shoes ten times too big for their feet.

The most striking object at Wiesbaden is a large square, bounded on one side by a handsome theatre, on two others by a colonnade of shops, and on a third by a very handsome building called the Cursaal, an edifice 430 feet in length, having, in front, a portico supported by six Ionic columns, above which there is inscribed, in gold letters—

FONTIBUS MATTIACIS, MDCCCX.

On entering the great door, I found myself at once in a saloon, or ball-room, 130 feet in length, 60 in breadth, and 50 in height, in which there is a gallery supported by 32 marble pillars of the Corinthian order; lustres are suspended from the ceiling, and, in niches in the wall, there are twelve white marble statues, which were originally intended for Letitia Bonaparte, and which the Wiesbaden people extol by saying that they cost about 1200l.

Branching from this great assembly-room, there are several smaller apartments, which in England would be called hells, or gambling-rooms.

The back of the Cursaal looks into a sort of parade, upon which, after dinner, hundreds of visiters sit in groups, to drink cheap coffee, listen to a band of most excellent cheap music, and admire, instead of swans, an immense number of snail-gobbling ducks and ducklings, which, swimming about a pond, shaded by weeping willows and acacias, come when they are called, and, ducklike, of course eat whatever is thrown to them.

Beyond this pond, which is within fifty yards of the Cursaal, there is a nice shrubbery, particularly pleasing to the stranger from the reflection, that at very great trouble, and at considerable expense, it has been planted, furnished with benches, and tastefully adorned by the inhabitants of Wiesbaden, for the gratification of their guests. From it a long shady walk, running by the side of a stream of water, extends for about two miles, to the ruins of the castle of Sonneburg.

Among the buildings of Wiesbaden, the principal ones, after the Cursaal and theatre, are the Schlosschen, containing a public library and museum, the hotels of the Four Seasons, the Eagle, the Rose, the Schutzenhof, and the Englischen Hof.

The churches are small, and seem adapted in size to the old, rather than to the new town. By far the greatest proportion of the inhabitants are Protestants, and their place of worship is scarcely big enough to hold them. At the southern extremity of the town there exists a huge pile of rubbish, with several high modern walls in ruins.

It appears that, a few years ago, the Catholics at Wiesbaden determined on building a church, which was to vie in magnificence with the Cursaal, and other gaudy specimens of the new town.

Eighty thousand florins were accordingly raised by subscription, and the huge edifice was actually finished, the priests were shaved, and everything was ready for the celebration of mass, when, À propos to nothing, “occidit una domus!” down it came thundering to the ground!

Whether it was blown up by subterranean heat, or burst by the action of frost,—whether it was the foundation, or the fine arched roof which gave way, are points which at Wiesbaden are still argued with acrimony and eagerness; and, to this day, men’s mouths are seen quite full of jagged consonants, as they condemn or defend the architect of the building—poor, unfortunate Mr. Schrumpf!

After having made myself acquainted with the geography of Wiesbaden, I arose one morning at half-past five o'clock to see the visiters drinking the waters. The scene was really an odd one. The long parade, at one extremity of which stood smoking and fuming the great Koch-brunnen, was seen crowded with respectably-dressed people, of both sexes, all walking (like so many watchmen, carrying lanterns), with glasses in their hands, filled, half filled, or quarter filled, with the medicine, which had been delivered to them from the brunnen so scalding hot, that they dared not even sip it, as they walked, until they had carried it for a considerable time.

It requires no little dexterity to advance in this way, without spilling one’s medicine, to say nothing of burning or slopping it over one’s fellow patients. Every person’s eye, therefore, whatever might be the theme of his conversation, was instantly fixed upon his glass; some few carried the thing along with elegance, but I could not help remarking that the greater proportion of people walked with their backs up, and were evidently very little at their ease. A band of Wind-instruments was playing, and an author, a native of Wiesbaden, in describing this scene, has sentimentally exclaimed—“Thousands of glasses are drunk by the sound of music!”

Four or five young people, protected by a railing, are employed the whole morning in filling, as fast as they can stoop down to the brunnen to do so, the quantities of glasses, which, from hands in all directions, are extending towards them; but so excessively hot is the cauldron, that the greater proportion of these glasses were, I observed, cracked by it, and several I saw fall to pieces when delivered to their owners. Not wishing to appear eccentric, which, in this amphibious picture any one is who walks about the parade without a glass of scalding hot water in his hand, I purchased a goblet, and the first dip it got cracked it from top to bottom.

In describing the taste of the mineral water of Wiesbaden, were I to say, that, while drinking it, one hears in one’s ears the cackling of hens, and that one sees feathers flying before one’s eyes, I should certainly grossly exaggerate; but when I declare that it exactly resembles very hot chicken broth, I only say what Dr. Granville said, and what in fact everybody says, and must say, respecting it; and certainly I do wonder why the common people should be at the inconvenience of making bad soup, when they can get much better from Nature’s great stock-pot—the Koch-brunnen of Wiesbaden. At all periods of the year, summer or winter, the temperature of this broth remains the same, and when one reflects that it has been bubbling out of the ground, and boiling over, in the very same state, certainly from the time of the Romans, and probably from the time of the flood, it is really astonishing to think what a most wonderful apparatus there must exist below, what an inexhaustible stock of provisions to ensure such an everlasting supply of broth, always formed of exactly the same eight or ten ingredients—always salted to exactly the same degree, and always served up at exactly the same heat.

One would think that some of the particles in the recipe would be exhausted; in short, to speak metaphorically, that the chickens would at last be boiled to rags, or that the fire would go out for want of coals; but the oftener one reflects on these sorts of subjects, the oftener is the old-fashioned observation forced upon the mind, that let a man go where he will, Omnipotence is never from his view!

As leaning against one of the columns of the arcade under which the band was playing, I stood with my medicine in my hand, gazing upon the strange group of people, who with extended glasses were crowding and huddling round the Koch-brunnen, each eagerly trying to catch the eye of the young water-dippers, I could not help feeling, as I had felt at Langen-Schwalbach, whether it could be possible for any prescription to be equally beneficial to such differently made patients. To repeat all the disorders which it is said most especially to cure, would be very nearly to copy the sad list of ailments to which our creaky frames are subject. The inhabitants of Wiesbaden rant, the hotel-keepers rave, about the virtues of this medicine. Stories are most gravely related of people crawling to Wiesbaden and running home. In most of the great lodging-houses crutches are triumphantly displayed, as having belonged to people who left them behind.

It is good they say for the stomach—good for the skin—good for ladies of all possible ages—for all sorts and conditions of men. It lulls pain—therefore it is good, they say, for people going out of this world, yet equally good is it, they declare, for those whose fond parents earnestly wish them to come in. For a head-ache, drink, the inn-keepers exclaim, at the Koch-brunnen! For gout in the heels, soak the body, the doctors say, in the chicken-broth!—in short, the valetudinarian, reclining in his carriage, has scarcely entered the town than, say what he will of himself, the inhabitants all seem to agree in repeating—“BenÈ, benÈ respondere; dignus es entrare nostro docto corpore!”

However, there would be no end in stating what the Wiesbaden water is said to be good for; a much simpler course is to explain, that doctors do agree in saying that it is not good for complaints where there is any disposition to inflammation or regular fever, and that it changes consumption into—death.

By about seven o'clock, the vast concourse of people who had visited the Koch-Brunnen had imbibed about as much of the medicine as they could hold, and accordingly, like swallows, almost simultaneously departing, the parade was deserted; the young water-dippers had also retired to rest, and every feature in the picture vanished, except the smoking, misty fumes of the water, which now, no longer in request, boiled and bubbled by itself, as it flowed into the drains, by which it eventually reached the Rhine.

The first act of the entertainment being thus over, in about a quarter of an hour the second commenced; in short, so soon as the visiters, retiring to their rooms, could divest or denude themselves of their garments, I saw stalking down the long passage of my lodging-house one heavy German gentleman after another whose skull-cap, dressing-gown, and slippers, plainly indicated that he was proceeding to the bath. In a short time, lady after lady, in similar dishabille, was seen following the same course. Silence, gravity, and incognito were the order of the day; and though I bowed as usual in meeting these undressed people, yet the polite rule is, not, as at other moments, to accompany the inclination with a gentle smile, but to dilute it with a look which cannot be too solemn or too sad.

There was something to my mind so very novel in bathing in broth, that I resolved to try the experiment, particularly as it was the only means I had of following the crowd. Accordingly, retiring to my room, in a minute or two I also, in my slippers and black dressing-gown, was to be seen, staff in hand, mournfully walking down the long passage, as slowly and as gravely as if I had been in such a procession all my life. An infirm elderly lady was just before me—some lighter-sounding footsteps were behind me—but without raising our eyes from the ground, we all moved on just as if we had been corpses gliding or migrating from one churchyard to another.

After descending a long well-staircase, I came to a door, which I no sooner opened, than, of its own accord, it slammed after me exactly as, five seconds before, it had closed upon the old lady who had preceded me, and I now found myself in an immense building, half filled with steam.

A narrow passage or aisle conducted me down the middle, on each side of me there being a series of doors opening into the baths, which, to my very great astonishment, I observed, were all open at top, being separated from each other by merely a half-inch boarded partition, not seven feet high!

Into several of these cells there was literally nothing but the steam to prevent people in the houses of the opposite side of the street from looking—a very tall man in one bath could hardly help peeping into the next, and in the roof or loft above the ceiling there were several loop-holes, through which any one might have had a bird’s-eye view of the whole unfledged scene. The arrangement, or rather want of arrangement, was altogether most astonishing; and as I walked down the passage, my first exclamation to myself was, “Well, thank Heaven, this would not do in England!” To this remark the Germans would of course say, that low, half-inch scantling is quite sufficient among well-bred people, whatever coarser protection might be requisite among us English; but though this argument may sound triumphant, yet delicacy is a subject which is not fit for noisy discussion. Like the bloom on fruit, it is a subject that does not bear touching; and if people of their own accord do not feel that the scene I have described is indelicate, it is quite impossible to prove it to them, and therefore “the less said is the soonest mended.”

As I was standing in the long passage, occupying myself with the above reflections, a nice, healthy old woman, opening a door, beckoned to me to advance, and accordingly with her I entered the little cell. Seeing I was rather infirm, and a stranger, she gave me, with two towels, a few necessary instructions,—such as that I was to remain in the mixture about thirty-five minutes, and beneath the fluid to strike with my arms and legs as strenuously as possible.

The door was now closed, and my dressing-gown being carefully hung upon a peg (a situation I much envied it), I proceeded, considerably against my inclination, to introduce myself to my new acquaintance, whose face, or surface, was certainly very revolting; for a white, thick, dirty, greasy scum, exactly resembling what would be on broth, covered the top of the bath. But all this, they say, is exactly as it should be, and, indeed, German bathers at Wiesbaden actually insist on its appearance, as it proves, they argue, that the bath has not been used by any one else. In most places, in ordering a warm bath, it is necessary to wait till the water be heated, but at Wiesbaden the springs are so exceedingly hot, that the baths are obliged to be filled over-night, in order to be cool enough in the morning; and the dirty scum I have mentioned is the required proof that the water has, during that time, been undisturbed.

Resolving not to be bullied by the ugly face of my antagonist, I entered my bath, and in a few seconds I lay horizontally, calmly soaking, like my neighbours. Generally speaking, a dead silence prevailed; occasionally an old man was heard to cough,—sometimes a young woman was gently heard to sneeze,—and two or three times there was a sudden heavy splash in the cell adjoining mine, which proceeded from the leg of a great awkward German Frau, kicking, by mistake, above, instead of (as I was vigorously doing) beneath the fluid. Every sigh that escaped was heard, and whenever a patient extricated him or herself from the mess, one could hear puffing and rubbing as clearly as if one had been assisting at the operation.

In the same mournful succession in which they had arrived, the bathers, in due time, ascended, one after another, to their rooms, where they were now permitted to eat—what they had certainly well enough earned—their breakfast. As soon as mine was concluded, I voted it necessary to clean my head, for from certain white particles which float throughout the bath, as thickly as, and indeed very much resembling, the mica in granite, I found that my hair was in a sticky state, in which I did not feel disposed it should remain. I ought, however, most explicitly to state, that the operation I here imposed upon myself was an act of eccentricity, forming no part of the regular system of the Wiesbaden bathers—indeed, I should say that the art of cleaning the hair is not anywhere much encouraged among Germans, who, perhaps with reason, rather pride themselves in despising any sort of occupation or accomplishment which can at all be called—superficial.

Before I quit the subject of bathing, I may as well at once observe, that one of my principal reasons for selecting the apartments I occupied at the Englischen Hof was, that the window of my sitting-room looked into the horse-bath, which was immediately beneath them. Three or four times a-day, horses, lame or chest-foundered, were brought to this spot. As the water was hot, the animals, on first being led into it, seemed much frightened, splashing, and violently pawing with their fore-feet an if to cool it, but being at last more accustomed to the strange sensation, they very quickly seemed exceedingly to enjoy it. Their bodies being entirely covered, the halter was then tied to a post, and they were thus left to soak for half or three-quarters of an hour. The heat seemed to heighten the circulation of their blood, and nothing could look more animated than their heads, as, peeping out of the hot fluid, they shook their dripping manes and snorted at every carriage, and horse, which they heard passing.

The price paid for each bathing of each horse is eighteen kreuzers, and this trifling fact always appeared to me to be the most satisfactory proof I could meet with of the curative properties of the Wiesbaden baths: for though it is, of course, the interest of the inhabitants to insist on their efficacy, yet the poor peasant would never, I think, continue for a fortnight to pay sixpence a-day, unless he knew, by experience of some sort or other, that his animal would really derive benefit.

One must not, however carry the moral too far; for even if it be admitted that these baths cure in horses strains and other effects of over-work, it does not follow that they are to be equally beneficial in gout, and other human complaints, which we all know are the effects of under-work, or want of exercise.

For more than half an hour I had been indolently watching this amphibious scene, when the landlord entering my room said, that the Russian Prince G——n wished to speak to me on some business; and the information was scarcely communicated, when I perceived his Highness standing at the threshold of my door. With the attention due to his rank, I instantly begged he would do me the honour to walk in; and, after we had sufficiently bowed to each other, and I had prevailed upon my guest to sit down, I gravely requested him, as I stood before him, to be so good as to state in what way I could have the good fortune to render him any service. The Prince very briefly replied, that he had called upon me, considering that I was the person in the hotel best capable (he politely inclined his head) of informing him by what route it would be most advisable for him to proceed to London, it being his wish to visit my country.

In order at once to solve this very simple problem, I silently unfolded and spread out upon the table my map of Europe; and each of us, as we leant over it, placing a fore-finger on or near Wiesbaden—(our eyes being fixed upon Dover)—we remained in this reflecting attitude for some seconds, until the Prince’s finger first solemnly began to trace its route. In doing this I observed that his Highness’s hand kept swerving far into the Netherlands; so, gently pulling it by the thumb towards Paris, I used as much force as I thought decorous, to induce it to advance in a straight line; however, finding my efforts ineffectual, I ventured, with respectful astonishment, to ask, “Why travel by so uninteresting a route?”

The Prince at once acknowledged that the road I had recommended would, by visiting Paris, afford him the greatest pleasure, but he frankly told me that no Russian, not even a personage of his rank, could enter that capital without first obtaining a written permission from the Emperor!!!

These words were no sooner uttered than I felt my fluent civility suddenly begin to coagulate; the attention I paid my guest became forced and unnatural—I was no longer at my ease; and though I bowed, strained, and endeavoured to be, if possible, more respectful, than ever, yet I really could hardly prevent my lips from muttering aloud, that I had sooner die a homely English peasant than live to be a Russian Prince! In short, his Highness’s words acted upon my mind like thunder upon beer; and, moreover, I could almost have sworn that I was an old lean wolf, contemptuously observing a bald ring rubbed by the collar from the neck of a sleek, well-fed mastiff dog; however, recovering myself, I managed to give as much information as it was in my humble power to afford, and my noble guest then taking his departure, I returned to my open window, to give vent in solitude (as I gazed upon the horse-bath) to my own reflections upon the subject.

Although the petty rule of my life has been never to trouble myself about what the world calls “politics”—(a fine word, by-the-by, much easier expressed than understood)—yet, I must own, I am always happy when I see a nation enjoying itself, and melancholy when I observe any large body of people suffering pain or imprisonment. But of all sorts of imprisonment, that of the mind is, to my taste, the most cruel; and, therefore, when I consider over what immense dominions the Emperor of Russia presides, and how he governs, I cannot help sympathizing most sincerely with those innocent sufferers who have the misfortune to be born his subjects; for if a Russian Prince be not freely permitted to go to Paris, in what a melancholy state of slavery and debasement must exist the minds of what we call the lower classes?

As a sovereign remedy for this lamentable political disorder, many very sensible people in England prescribe, I know, that we ought to have recourse to arms. I must confess, however, it seems to me that one of the greatest political errors England could commit would be to declare, or to join in declaring war against Russia; in short, that an appeal to brute force would, at this moment, be at once most unscientifically to stop an immense moral engine, which, if left to its work, is quite powerful enough, without bloodshed, to gain for humanity, at no expense at all, its object. The individual who is, I conceive to overthrow the Emperor of Russia—who is to direct his own legions against himself—who is to do what Napoleon at the head of his Great Army failed to effect, is the little child, who, lighted by the single wick of a small lamp, sits at this moment perched above the great steam-press of our “Penny Magazine,” feeding it, from morning till night, with blank paper, which, at almost every pulsation of the engine, comes out stamped on both sides with engravings, and with pages of plain, useful, harmless knowledge, which, by making the lower orders acquainted with foreign lands—foreign production’s—various states of society, &c., tend practically to inculcate “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace—good will towards men.” It has already been stated, that what proceeds from this press is now greedily devoured by the people of Europe; indeed, even at Berlin, we know it can hardly be reprinted fast enough.

This child, then,—“this sweet little cherub that sits up, aloft,” is the only army that an enlightened country like ours should, I humbly think, deign to oppose to one who reigns in darkness—who trembles at day-light, and whose throne rests upon ignorance and despotism. Compare this mild, peaceful, intellectual policy, with the dreadful, savage alternative of going to war, and the difference must surely be evident to every one. In the former case, we calmly enjoy, first of all, the pleasing reflection, that our country is generously imparting to the nations of Europe the blessings she is tranquilly deriving from the purification and civilization of her own mind;—far from wishing to exterminate, we are gradually illuminating, the Russian peasant—we are mildly throwing a gleam of light upon the fetters of the Russian Prince; and surely every well-disposed person must see, that, if we will only have patience, the result of this noble, temperate conduct must produce all that reasonable beings can desire. But, on the other hand, if we appeal to arms—if, losing our temper and our head, we endeavour (as the bear is taught to dance) to civilize the Emperor of Russia by hard blows, we instantly consolidate all the tottering elements of his dominions; we give life, energy, and loyalty to his army; we avert the thoughts of his princes from their own dishonour; we inflame the passions, instead of awakening the sober judgment of his subjects, and thus throwing away both our fulcrum and our lever, by resorting to main strength, we raise the savage not only to a level with ourselves, but actually make ourselves decidedly his inferior; for Napoleon’s history ought surely sufficiently to instruct us, that the weapons of this northern Prince of Darkness—(his climate and his legions)—even if we had an army, we ought not, in prudence, to attack; but the fact is, our pacific policy has been to try to exist without an army,—in the opinion of all military men we have even disarmed ourselves too much, and, in this situation, suddenly to change our system, and without arms or armour to attack one who is almost invulnerable, would be most irrationally to paralyze our own political machinery.

If, by its moral assistance, we wisely intend, under the blessings of Heaven, to govern and be governed, we surely ought not from anger to desert, its standard; and, on the other hand, it must be equally evident that before we determine on civilizing the Emperor of Russia, by trying the barbarous experiment of whether his troops or ours can, without shrinking, eat most lead, it would be prudent to create an army, as well as funds able to maintain it; for—

Being desirous to observe the way in which a Sunday evening was passed in Germany, at seven o'clock on that day I followed a crowd of people into the theatre, and found the house so full, that I had great difficulty in obtaining a seat. The performance was a complete surprise to me; for though ages ago, when I was young, I had been in the habit of regularly attending for years together an Italian theatre, yet never having before witnessed a German opera, I did not know it was possible so completely to adapt the sounds of music to every varying thought and sentiment in a play; in short, the words of the play, and the notes of the orchestra, were as nearly as possible fac-similes of each other; demi-semi-quavers, crotchets, and minims being made most ingeniously to mimic, not only exclamations, but marks of admiration, notes of interrogation, colons, and full stops.

The musical emphasis which accompanied every line throughout the piece, while it merely astonished me, seemed to be most scientifically appreciated by the audience, whose countenances of severe attention were very remarkable; no interruption, however, of any sort took place, their feelings of approbation or censure being equally mute. In the various departments of the performance, a great deal of natural talent was displayed, and whether one attended to the music—to the style of acting—to the scenery—or even to a dish of devils, which made their appearance, most strangely garnished with toads, bats, serpents, and non-descript beings, one could not help admitting that, in spite of its torpor, there must exist a considerable quantity of latent genius, imagination, and taste, in the audience itself; indeed, there can be no fairer criterion of the mental character of any country, than its own national spectacles, which are of course, and must be, made to correspond with, and suit, the palates of those who support them. It is true that that mimic Fashion will occasionally introduce into a country foreign habits, not suited to its climate. For instance, of our own fine London opera, Italians say, that without calling upon the English audience itself to sing, their behaviour quite clearly proves that they have no real taste for—that they are not capable of relishing, the foreign musical luxury which by the power of money they have purchased: in short, they accuse us of listening, when we ought to be coughing—of talking to each other, when we ought to be breathless, from attention—and of most barbarously throwing the light of the theatre upon ourselves instead of on the performers—thus showing that we prefer looking at tiers of red cheeks and rows of white teeth, to listening to the soft, simple melody of music. But, whether these foreign remarks respecting an Italian performance be true or not, in our own element, in our own English theatres, the accusation of want of taste does not hold good. The admirers of Shakspeare, Siddons, Kemble, Kean, O'Neil, &c., cannot complain that the writings of the one, or the acting of the others, have not reached the hearts of those to whom they have been directed; in short, without sympathetic talent throughout the country, those names could never have reached the respective eminences on which they stand, and thus, though they do honour to the country, the country can also claim honour from them.

When the pleasing performance I had been witnessing was at an end, on coming into the open air, I found it was raining. Like myself, most people were without umbrellas; the rain, however, seemed to have no effect upon the tide of human bodies that flowed en masse towards the Cursaal, which, ready lighted up, was waiting for the disgorging of the theatre. On entering the great door, each person was required to pay a florin, and as the large room was rapidly very nearly filled, the band struck up, and dancing most vigorously began. I could now scarcely believe my eyes, that the performers, so awkwardly attempting to be active before me, were the identical people whose passive good taste and genius I had, with so much pleasure, been admiring; for with a more awkward, clumsy, inelegant set of dancers I certainly never before had found myself in society. Not only was the execution of their steps violently bad, but their whole style of dancing was of a texture as coarse as dowlas, and most especially, in their mode of waltzing, there was a repetition of vulgar jerks which it was painfully disagreeable to witness. Leaving, therefore, these dull, heavy, tetotums to spin out the evening in their own way, I quitted the great room; but no sooner did I enter the smaller dens than I found that I had fallen from the frying-pan into the fire, for these “hells” were literally swarming with inhabitants. In each chamber an immense solitary lamp (having a circular reflector) hung over the green cloth table, round which, male and female gamesters, of all ages, were bending, with horrid features of anxiety; and as the powerful rancid oil light shone upon their ill-favoured countenances, I could not help with abhorrence leaning backwards, at seeing a group of fellow-creatures huddled together for such a base, low-minded object. In passing through the chambers of this infernal region, I found one worse, if possible, than the other. Under each lamp, there were, here and there, contrasted with young nibblers, individual countenances of habitual gamesters, which, as objects of detestation, many a painter, or rather scene-painter, would have been exceedingly anxious to sketch; but I was so completely disgusted with the whole thing, that, as quickly as my staff and two legs could carry me, swinging the other arm, I took my departure.

In hastily worming my way through the ball-room, I saw there no reason for changing my opinion; and when I got into the fresh, cool, open air, though I was fully sensible I had not spent my Sunday evening exactly as I ought to have done, yet, in the course of my very long life, I think I never felt more practically disposed to repeat, as in England we are, thank Heaven, still taught to do—

“REMEMBER THAT THOU KEEP HOLY
THE SABBATH DAY.”

THE END.