(Second Pilgrimage.) (continued 4)

On the field of Culm the sable wing of destiny threw a shade over the star of Napoleon, which never afterwards regained its splendour, or stayed its downward course, till it sunk in the far Atlantic. On the plains of Marne and Waterloo, indeed,[85] that star emitted some vivid corruscations; but they only tended to exhaust its fire and accelerate its fall!

TETCHEN.

Full of ruminations on the vicissitudes of human life—the vanity of man’s hopes—and the nothingness of his works—we drove through a highly picturesque valley, at the foot of the last range of the Bohemian mountains, till we suddenly debouched on the silvery Elbe, at the bustling and boating little town of Tetchen. The first object which arrested our attention was a huge pile of white buildings standing on a bold and jutting promontory some seven or eight hundred feet above the right bank of the river, with thrice as many windows in its walls as there were eyes in the head of Argus. Various were our conjectures as to whether the edifice before us was an immense barrack, an overgrown convent, where half the daughters of Bohemia might prepare for another world, or a great factory? Even the oracular authority of the “red-book” could not persuade us that it was a palace. The river at this place is always crowded with boats of all shapes and sizes laden with merchandize—chiefly hewn stone from the rocky banks, and timber from the pine-clad mountains. We had some difficulty in getting the carriage along between a precipice on the left, and the stream on our right, but at length got safely housed in the Josephsbad Hotel—“in one of the most romantic situations which the banks of the river Elbe afford.”—Murray. Here we learnt that the great pile of building was actually the palace or castle of Count Thun, and crossing the ferry we scrambled up through a straggling town to the rear of the castle, and then climbed up a road of rock that led to the chateau, and which was steep enough for goats, though the tracks of wheels, worn in the smooth and precipitous stone, shewed that less agile animals than the ibex had dragged their weary way to the summit. The view from the castle is remarkably picturesque, though rather hemmed in by hills, rocks, and mountains—the winding Elbe soon disappearing in the dark ravines of Saxon Switzerland. Count Thun’s library is, I believe, the great lion of the castle; but as I never could derive much amusement or information from a survey of the backs of books, we returned to our eagle’s nest, the Josephsbad, and slept sound over the murmuring Elbe. There is a chalybeate spring here of some local reputation, and certainly an invalid could not easily select a more romantic spot for the restoration of health than Tetchen.

We embarked in a gondola early in the morning, and immediately entered “Saxon Switzerland,” a tract of country extending from Tetchen to the neighbourhood of Dresden, and perfectly unique in character, bearing little or no resemblance to Switzerland, or to any other country in the world through which I have passed. It has none of the snowy solitudes, the sparkling glaciers, or the majestic altitude of the Alps; but it has a geographical and geological physiognomy, of which there is “nil simile aut secundum” on this globe. The river runs through a gorge, which is, in fact, a gigantic excavation—a huge crevasse—a profound chasm, in the rocky bed of an antediluvian ocean, disclosing glimpses of “the world before the flood,” and letting out some of the “secrets of the prison-house.” Whether this ocean-bed was raised from its dark abyss by the agency of subterranean fire, or was left uncovered by the subsidence of the superincumbent sea, may admit of question; but no doubt can be entertained as to the formation of those rocky walls that now rise a thousand feet high on each side of the stream. They are piled, layer over layer, in strata of different thickness and different density—but all as horizontal as the ocean under which they once lay. They were all, therefore, depositions from the sea, and considering that most of these strata are hard enough to form millstones, imagination is lost in the vain attempt to estimate the countless ages that must have rolled away during the deposition and consolidation of even a single stratum—how many millions of years, then, must it have required to form layer over layer, of this immense crust, at the bottom of the ocean, leaving aside the unknown intervals that must have elapsed between the various deposits!! Again, the elevation of the earth, or the subsidence of the waters, so as to produce the complete denudation of this rocky district, could not but occupy ages of ages. In whatever way this long chain of stratifications took place, it is quite evident that it was long subjected to powerful currents. The layers are all grooved and furrowed horizontally, in the line of the river, and not perpendicularly, as by rains descending along their sides. It is true they are often split perpendicularly and irregularly; but this is quite the work of time and decay—not at all like the horizontal smoothing, the consequence of long-continued watery friction. Some travellers have supposed that the river Elbe has hewn its way through these rocks and formed the huge ravine on the principle—

But as the very summits of the rock (800 feet high) shew the same proofs of horizontal “wear and tear” as the lowest strata, what must have been the state of the surrounding country, when the Elbe was 800 feet above its present level? It was covered with water, and the grooves in the rocks were the effects of currents, not rivers—in other words, they are diluvial and not fluvial phenomena. But the banks of this stream are not the only places here which exhibit proofs and records of a deluge. The neighbouring country, especially on the right bank, and where no rivers exist, is studded with “fragments of an earlier world,” all bearing the same marks of watery attrition, from their highest to their lowest strata. Although many of these “splinter’d pinnacles,” are columnar in shape, they are tabular in construction—all shewing horizontal strata (where they have not tumbled down), and all evincing a greater wear and tear of the interstitial materials between the layers, than of the layers themselves—another proof of the lateral and not perpendicular action of the waters by which they were worn smooth.

We descended slowly in our gondola, the day being splendidly clear, and the wind blowing fresh against us, which retarded our progress, but favoured our examination of the infinitely varied scenery in this romantic gorge. At Neidergrund, on the left bank, we were stopped by the last Austrian Douane, for examination of passports; and then continued our descent. At this place, however, there is a huge fragment of rock which must have rolled from the adjacent cliff, at some remote period, but which is now perfectly smooth in every part of its surface, from the friction of the floods. In this stone, there is also a polished excavation, with a narrow door, in which, it is said, a pious hermit once resided. Hence its name—“Monchenstein.” It is worth examining while the tardy Douanier is poring over your passport, and filling unmeaning columns in his musty journals.

A league farther on, where the right bank rises like a wall to a stupendous height, and demonstrating the stratifications with peculiar distinctness, we come to a huge pile of buildings, overhung by massive crags of rocks, and forming a douane, police-station, and hotel. Here we encounter the Saxon Custom-house, where our trunks were opened and examined—an operation which was never once performed by Prussian, Bavarian, or Austrian, during our whole journey. And here I must do the Austrians, who are represented as so very austere in their police and douanes, the justice to say that, in no part of their dominions did we ever experience the slightest interruption or inconvenience in respect to passports; nor did they ever ask us for the key of a trunk on entering, travelling through, or quitting their territories.

From this place (Herrnskretchen), excursions are often made, by people who have plenty of time on their hands, to the summit of the “Winterberg,” where a very extensive prospect of Saxon Switzerland and the Bohemian ranges is obtained. The mountain prospect is hardly worth the toil of the mountain journey. Better prospects are obtained from two points to be presently noticed, where the view, though not quite so wide, is infinitely more distinct and striking, and where the points themselves possess the highest degree of interest, which the summit of the Winterberg does not. The Preberchthor, however, a league and a half from Herrnskretchen, is worth seeing. It is a gigantic natural arch of rock, exhibiting well the stratified formation, and looking like the portal of some enchanted castle, being 60 ells (French) in height, the same in breadth, and 30 in depth. The arch itself is 1400 feet and more above the level of the sea. The summit, or key-stone of the arch forms a kind of narrow slanting platform, 30 or 40 feet in length, from which a romantic prospect opens on the view.

The Kuhstall (or cow-house) is another natural arch, where the strata of rock appear to be somewhat bent as they stride over the aperture below. Various other “disjecta membra” of an antediluvian world are scattered about between the Winterberg and Schandau.

We remained but a short time at Schandau; and, after dinner, hired a gondola, where a female rowed manfully against the breeze, assisted by her husband and brother, and in a couple of hours we reached

KŒNIGSTEIN.

This is one of the lions of Saxon Switzerland—a kind of jung-frau fortress that has never yielded to shot, shell, or escalade. It is situated on the left bank of the river, near the town of Kœnigstein, from whence we ascended by a long and steep road that required full an hour before we arrived at the gate of this impregnable fortress. The Saxon war minister being governor of Kœnigstein, our passports procured us admission, with an orderly to shew us round. One of the most prominent features of this country is, the projection from its surface of numerous truncated cones of the same kind of stratified rock which compose the banks of the Elbe. They rise almost perpendicularly from plain or hill, to various heights of one hundred to seven or eight hundred feet, with a flat surface on the top, like a sugar-loaf with its upper third cut off. Kœnigstein is one of the largest of these natural forts, and the strongest. It springs from an elevated ground, and is at least fifteen hundred feet above the level of the Elbe that flows at its base. The walls are not columnar, but masses of horizontal strata piled upon one another, precisely like those composing the banks of the river, the highest as well as lowest layers presenting the same horizontal “wear and tear,” produced by the action of long-continued currents of water. The plateau on the summit of this antediluvian citadel occupies a space of two or three acres, which, considering the locality, supports a good deal of vegetation, trees, and fruit. Excavations in the rock serve as bomb-proofs for provisions, ammunition, and military barracks, if assailed. The plateau is encircled by a coronet of cannon and mortars, and in the spaces between the embrasures, immense heaps of stones are piled up, to be hurled on the heads of those who ventured to approach the rocky ramparts of this aerial fortress. Down through the centre of the rock a well is bored to the depth of 1800 feet, and from this source an abundant supply of excellent water is drawn up by a wheel, like a tread-mill, worked, or rather walked, by half a dozen soldiers. In the centre of the plateau there is a circus, where the governor with one of his aide-de-camps was galloping round, for air and exercise.

We made the entire circuit of the ramparts, and from these the most extensive views are taken in every direction, embracing scenery so strange, romantic, and beautiful, that no language can do it justice—nor pencil neither! At its eastern base flows the winding Elbe, and directly opposite, on the other side of the stream, rises Lilienstein, about three miles distant from Kœnigstein, and of a precisely similar shape and composition. A German prince, who was also a Polish king, had the courage and dexterity to scale the Lilienstein, and was so proud of the exploit, that he commemorated it by an inscription near the place of ascent. Napoleon, in one of his German forays, succeeded, with incredible labour and difficulty, to elevate some guns to the summit of this gigantic rock, in order to batter Kœnigstein, but his labour was lost, for the shot fell short of the sister fortress. But Kœnigstein might have laughed at Bonaparte even if his cannon could have swept the houses from the plateau of the Saxon strong-hold. It would have remained as impregnable as ever. The view from this spot takes in the whole or nearly the whole of Saxon Switzerland, and extends to thirty or forty miles in every direction—from the Winterberg to Dresden, the towers of which are plainly visible. All the peculiar rocks in the shape of truncated cones, as well as those masses of pillars and cliffs about the Bastei, are distinctly seen from Kœnigstein. Mr. Russell has the following passage in his work on Germany.

“The striking feature is, that in the bosom of this amphitheatre, a plain of the most varied beauty, huge columnar hills start up at once from the ground, at great distances from each other, overlooking in lonely and solemn grandeur, each its own portion of the domain. They are monuments which the Elbe has left standing to commemorate his triumph over their less hardy kindred. The most remarkable among them are the Lilienstein and Kœnigstein, which tower, nearly in the centre of the plain, to a height of above 1200 feet above the Elbe.”

I have marked a sentence, in italics, because it conveys an erroneous idea. It may be poetical; but it is not philosophical. If the Elbe was the Deluge, or the Deluge was the Elbe, all well. But I think Mr. Russell would hardly contend for this identity. The fact is, that the Deluge wore away the softer parts from around Kœnigstein, Lilienstein, and all the other Steins, ten thousand, or, more likely, ten million of years before the Elbe was born! The diminutive stream of the river merely conducted its rills from the mountains through the bottom of the chasm hollowed out by the mighty currents of an antediluvian ocean.

It required two hours to visit the cloud-capt towers and frowning battlements of this impregnable citadel, whose walls were not built by human hands, but constructed beneath the waters of some mighty deep. The magnificent and singular scenery which everywhere bursts on the astonished eye from the cannon-crown’d crest of Kœnigstein, can never be erased from the memory.

We descended from the fortress to the town, tired, hunger’d, but highly gratified by the excursion. Fickle Fortune is not always profuse of her gifts. The feast of the eye this day was purchased by a fast of the stomach. Notwithstanding the care we had taken to order the “huhn gebraten,” the “schinken,” the “kartoflen,” and other little matters for dinner, all of which were civilly promised, with a hearty “ja wohl mynheer,” into the bargain; yet, to our mortification, up came the infernal or at least the eternal dish—mutton-chops, composed of old meat pounded into a paste, squeezed into a mould, fried with butter, covered with flour, and pierced with the ribs of some “schaf” that might have been slaughtered the preceding year! Remonstrance was vain, and complaint was unavailing. Dish after dish was returned untouched—and dish after dish of the same materials, came back again, in other forms! With a sorrowful heart and an empty stomach, I called to mind the first line of Ovid’s Metamorphoses—

As a forlorn hope, we requested some cheese; when, lo, after a quarter of an hour’s expectation, in came a wedge exhaling such a complication of all horrible and unutterable odours, that we were glad to launch it out of the window among the pigs—and even they scampered off in all directions at the sight, sound, and smell of this unexpected and apparently unwelcome visitor! Good comes out of evil. This last consummation of our miseries fortunately obliterated our appetites as effectually as a fit of sea-sickness in a gale of wind. The beds were as bad as the board, and the smell of the cheese seemed to have called forth myriads of the most minute, agile, and animated beings, who appeared to leap and skip with joy, over our beds and round our dormitory—but whether in search of the savoury “kase,” or bent on more sanguinary depredations, I will not pretend to decide. This I know, that the frolicksome gambols of these black and saltant imps conduced but very little to sleep, notwithstanding the lightness of our supper. Mr. Murray says that the Inn at Kœnigstein is “tolerable.” It may be so, but the inmates are intolerable! I do not think that Horace spent a worse night in the Pontine fens, when he was assailed, on one side by the “mali culices,” and on the other, by the “ranæ palustres.” We had not the “mali culices,” it is true—but we had far worse customers, the mali pulices!! In fine, it was the “frogs and flies” of Treponti in Italy, versus the “fleas and cheese” of Kœnigstein in Germany. I would pit the latter against the former any Summer’s night of the year!

THE BASTEI.

We left Kœnigstein early on a beautiful morning in our gondola, and in two hours we were housed in New Raden, at the foot of the Bastei. Having procured a guide, we commenced a laborious and steep zig-zag ascent towards the summit of the arch-lion of Saxon Switzerland. It required an hour or nearly so, to accomplish this task—each tourniquet of the ascent opening out more and more extended and splendid prospects. At length we got into the “regio petrea,” or stony region—sometimes winding round the bases of huge cliffs—sometimes squeezing through narrow fissures of the rock—and at others, crossing profound chasms over slender wooden bridges, or rather foot-paths. When almost despairing of gaining the summit before our strength was exhausted, we suddenly found ourselves on a small but level platform, on the highest pinnacle of the Bastei, and commanding a complete view, not only of the immense mass of splintered rocks around us, but of the whole country in every direction. In all my peregrinations round this globe, I never met with any locality or prospect similar to the one which burst on my astonished sight at this place!

We stood on the verge of a tremendous precipice, eight hundred feet in height, and overhanging the Elbe below. Though its brow is fringed with an iron ballustrade, I observed that very few ventured to look over the frightful bourne,

In the opposite direction, rises one of the most singular scenes that ever opened on the human eye. The billows of an angry ocean suddenly converted into stone, while agitated by a furious hurricane, might convey some, but a very imperfect, idea of this astonishing locality. The fractured rocks, though all presenting the stratifications so often mentioned, and most of them still horizontal, assume almost every shape and form that imagination bodies forth in the autumnal clouds that range themselves along the western horizon, as the cortege of a setting sun, on a beautiful evening. Pyramids, cliffs, spires, columns, ruins, cupolas, turrets, battlements, castles, colossal statues and fantastic figures—of everything, in short, which a fertile fancy can conjure up in the animate or inanimate world.[86]

After the first emotions of surprize and astonishment have subsided, we begin to ask ourselves what convulsion of Nature could have produced this scene of devastation, destruction, and dislocation? Was it an earthquake?—a volcano?—or a deluge? Coupling this last idea with the acknowledged fact that all these fractured rocks were once a series of level and solid strata at the bottom of the ocean, the remarkable expression in Holy Writ rushed on the mind—“And the fountains of the great deep were broken up.” Whether this indescribable scene of disruption and dilapidation was produced by any one of those three causes, or by all in succession, must for ever remain a secret sealed from human ken,—but it is abundantly evident, from the vast masses of debris along the banks of the river, that the winds and rains are constantly disintegrating the softer materials of this “Mer de Pierres,” and carrying them down towards the stream of the Elbe, which acts its part in conveying them to the bed of the great Northern Ocean, there to form new deposits, preparatory to some other revolution in our planet, which may once more raise the bed of the sea into terra firma—and overwhelm our mountains and plains in unfathomable depths of the vast watery element!

Various paths are formed among the intricacies of the rocks here, and seats formed for contemplating

And few minds can dwell on such a scene without profound reflections on that Almighty Power whose operations are displayed here on such a stupendous scale.

The external or distant views from the Bastei are still more striking than those from the fortress of Kœnigstein—more varied in their character, and having Kœnigstein itself, and also Lilienstein, as most prominent features in the landscape. The rocky mounds in the same shape as the Lilienstein, which stand up in every direction, are all seats of legendary tales, nearly as numerous as those of the Rhine.

We were not a little surprized to find in this eyrie a very comfortable hotel—the romantic situation of which has no equal in Europe, or in the world. But we were still more astonished to find horses and carriages in the court-yard of the inn! We were, at first, inclined to disbelieve the evidence of our own senses: but soon discovered that the northern approach to the Bastei admits of a good carriage road, so that invalids or weakly tourists may ascend to the very edge of the plateau on the summit of the highest rock, without the slightest fatigue. Near the hotel, there is seen a gigantic excavation in the rock, five times the size of the Coliseum in Rome, and very much in the form of a huge natural amphitheatre, surrounded by a towering rocky wall, of immense height, which wall is crowned by a great variety of grotesque and colossal figures, bearing more or less resemblance to animals and artificial constructions. Here is a very loud and distinct echo, which adds to the interest of a scene quite unique on the face of this globe.

We descended by the same path by which we ascended, enjoying the prospects from various points, and bidding adieu to the most interesting spot we had ever visited.

ELBE to DRESDEN.

Our little gondola floated down the silver Elbe towards Dresden on a beautiful day, the right bank of the river still preserving its superiority of scenery over the left. Indeed I think the former bank little, if at all, inferior to even the best parts of the Rhine—besides the advantage of innumerable white villas, vineyards, gardens, and orchards, scattered from the summit of the hills down to the water’s edge.

PILLNITZ.

Passing the fortified town of Pirna a on the left, we arrived at the summer residence of the royal family at Pillnitz; but too late to avail ourselves of the permission given to foreigners to see, from a contiguous gallery, the regal banquet at dinner-hour. The lions had not only fed, but fled—perhaps to realize our nursery estimate of the felicity attendant on crowns and sceptres—

I certainly feared that the faithful adhesion of Saxony to the fortunes of Napoleon, though it saved the “galleries” and “green vaults” of Dresden, had not tended to an overflow of the royal treasury—and I was quite sure that the battle of Leipsic and the Congress of Vienna had by no means enlarged the territories of the Saxon Monarch. As to the Queen, Boney’s inordinate love of bees must have greatly thinned the ranks of her majesty’s hives on the sunny banks of the Elbe, and diminished the supply of honey for the use of herself and maids of honour.[87] Be that as it may, I sincerely hope that no Saxon queen will ever be reduced from bread and honey to bread and cheese—for in that event, her majesty’s case would be hopeless.

We greatly regretted that we had not a glimpse at that magnificent lioness of Pillnitz, the Princess Amelia, sister to the monarch, and Playwriter to Germany in general. How she, as a Saxon princess, contrived to depict on the stage, “the domestic manners of the Germans,” as Mrs. Jameson very artfully terms her dramas, is beyond my comprehension, unless she imitated the Eastern Princes of former days, who went incog. among their subjects. Be this as it may, I confess I do not see any delineation of character in these plays that might not be picked up in the library, theatre, and drawing-room, by any clever girl of Princess Amelia’s calibre and talents. There is a clearer insight into domestic manners in one of Horace’s Odes or Satires (vide Sat. VIII.,) than in the whole of the Princess’s plays put together.

DRESDEN.

We approached this city on a beautiful evening—its numerous spires and domes, its raised terraces, shaded promenades, broad river, and handsome bridge, making a favourable impression on the stranger’s mind. The bridge, though said to be the finest in Germany, would make a sorry figure alongside of our Waterloo—and it bears on its centre arch a memorial that is not likely ever to appear on any bridge that crosses the Thames—the marks of a blow-up by a French General. The memorial, however, is not very complimentary to the Gallic soldiers, who performed the exploit to prevent the allies from running—after them! I wish the bridge regulation over the Elbe was enforced on all bridges, and even streets—viz. that of compelling passengers to take the right-hand side, by which they avoid jostlings or collisions. The new town, on the right bank, is the unfashionable one—the old one, the reverse—though the streets of the latter are narrow, the houses high, and very dull as well as unadorned.

You have scarcely descended from the bridge on the left bank, when you find yourself entangled between a palace, a church, a theatre, and a minister’s huge hotel, or rather bureau. Here I observed what I had hitherto scouted—an “iter ad astra”—a royal road to heaven. From the windows of the palace a royal arch strides across the street, and enters the Catholic church, high up, near the regal box or pew over the altar!—On the opposite side rises the theatre. Thus Religion sits calmly, but proudly, between Comedy and Carousel; and the same musical corps which “swell the notes of praise” in the solemn anthem of morning mass, fill the air with the dulcet notes of Terpsichore, in the evening Opera. Such easy transitions would excite some remark in holy England—though there is nothing, after all, in these double duties of the vocal train—“vox et pretærea nihil.” But the sight of an English king going every Sunday to mass would astonish his Protestant subjects. Not so in Dresden. The Saxons are just as much Protestants as the British are; yet they take no umbrage at their monarch preferring the Romish to the reformed ritual!! Would that such peaceable and charitable sentiments were universal in the world!

The palace itself is the most strange, straggling, and sombre mass or rather chaos of state prisons that ever monarch inhabited—unless it is he of the Tartarian regions. It runs up the side of one street—down that of another—cuts a third in two—swallows up a fourth in toto—and then scatters itself into squares, courts, platzes, galleries, museums, &c. from which a stranger would find no small difficulty in extricating himself, except by the aid of Ariadne’s clue, or a rope-yarn longer than any that was ever spun by a Greenwich pensioner. No wonder that their majesties take their annual departure from this gloomy abode most punctually on the first day of May, to enjoy the pure air and romantic prospects of Pillnitz and the Bastei.

The picture-galleries here have procured for Dresden the title of “the Florence of Germany.” I think the “Green Vaults,” and “Porcelain Manufactories,” entitle it to the additional appellations of “Royal Toy-shop of Saxony,” and “China-Warehouse of Europe.”

As good Protestants we first went to the cathedral—but as service was over we climbed to the summit of the dome, and there we had a most complete panoramic view of Dresden and the surrounding country, renewing our acquaintance with our old friends Kœnigstein and Lilienstein, which stand proudly forth as gigantic guardians of an enchanted land. The dome of the cathedral is the first spot which a stranger should visit, as it is the only place which spreads everything before him, as on a map, and all in their just proportions and distances. The city of Dresden is by no means extensive, even when including the old and new town; but the surrounding and distant country presents scenery of great variety and beauty. The southern views take in Saxon Switzerland—the northern, the fertile plains and vales that stretch away towards Leipzig and Berlin. It is from this elevated position that the great field of battle between Napoleon and the allies (26th and 27th of August 1814) now smiles in peace and cultivation, instead of being bristled with cannon, and strewed with human sacrifices at the altar of Mars. The fortifications are now levelled to the ground, or converted into beautiful shaded walks, gardens, and groves, that lead out to meet a laughing landscape in every direction. One, and only one, melancholy object arrests the wandering eye of the delighted observer—the monument of Moreau, on the spot where he fell by the side of the Emperor Alexander. A plain free-stone block commemorates at once, the death of the “hero Moreau,” and the last victory of Napoleon! From that moment, the star of this “child of destiny” began to fade in lustre, and descend from its meridian. The battle of Culm and the disastrous defeat at Leipzig completed the liberation of Germany; whilst the struggles in France and Belgium afterwards, were only the pangs of a dying giant!

It appeared that Fortune had, in Napoleon’s case, determined to wipe the stain of fickleness from her character; but that she became exhausted by, or, almost ashamed of, pouring incessant favours on a man, whose talents were as brilliant as his ambition was boundless; and whose philanthropy was so weak that the blood of the whole human race would scarcely have satiated his thirst of power, while the faintest hope of attaining or retaining it remained!—a man without moderation in prosperity, magnanimity in adversity, fidelity in matrimony, philosophy in exile, or religion in death.[88] He expired in the crater of an extinct volcano—a suitable sepulchre for one who had grown up amid revolution, storms, political earthquakes, and the thunders of war. His ashes, which reposed in peace during twenty years, have been exhumed from the grave, and cast like a fire-brand upon a huge pile of the most inflammable and destructive combustibles that were ever amassed for the explosion of another moral volcano!

It was for a nation like France, to demolish the altar of the living God (to use the words of Montalivert) to make room for the ashes of a Deist dead!

While memory retraces the page of history, written in blood on the smiling landscape beneath us, the eye rests once more on the pyramidal block which marks the fall of one of the ablest and best children of the revolution. Some dastard, under the cover of night, nearly effaced the word “hero,” and substituted for it that of “traitor.” Man is judged in this world by his actions—in the next world by his motives. If Moreau warred against his country, he was a traitor—if he warred against a tyrant, who usurped the sceptre and destroyed the liberties of his country, he was a patriot.

Taking a last circumspective view of the splendid prospect around us, we descended from the dome of the cathedral, and bent our steps to the Catholic church, where high mass was about to be celebrated. Here we found a sacred precept at once completely violated. “Whom God has joined let no man separate.” But the wife is here severed from her husband, and the sister from the brother—for what good purpose I am unable to divine. If the two sexes are not allowed to pray together, lest the scandal of assignations should result, the priesthood of Saxony are as little acquainted with human nature as they are with the Aborigines of New Holland.

But what becomes of this regulation, when we see that it only extends to the pit, while in the galleries of this holy opera (for high mass is neither more nor less than a sacred drama), the ladies and gentlemen are allowed to listen and laugh—or peradventure to pray, during the service?

The music here is said to be the best in Germany—and I suppose it must be so. If the object of sacred music be the elevation of the soul to the highest pitch of religious fervor and devotional enthusiasm, the accomplishment of that object may be doubted where a multiplicity of violins and other instruments drown rather than accompany the choir and the organ. There is, however, one exception to this doubt. When, in the performance of the solemn requiem, and at the words—

the trumpet pours its loud notes along the vaulted roof of some lofty cathedral, which reverberates them on the crowd below, in imitation of the “last trump,” whose awful sounds shall penetrate every grave on this globe—burst the marble cerements of the tomb—and summon their shivering tenants to the foot-stool of their God—the effect is almost magical! And well it may be so. The very idea of such a stupendous and miraculous event, involving the hopes and fears, the rewards and punishments, the eternal peace or endless misery of the whole human race, is sufficiently astounding and overwhelming in itself; but when heightened by the most artful and gorgeous imitation that human ingenuity could invent or effect, the impression is beyond description or even conception!

The picture-galleries are the master-lion of Dresden, and as a mere catalogue of the paintings—not a “catalogue raisonnée”—fills a goodly octavo volume, the reader may be assured that I will not, even if I could, inflict on him a critical notice of this celebrated collection, reiterated ad nauseam, by so many connoisseurs in the art and mystery of the craft. Would that the pictorial critics would keep their unintelligible jargon and puzzling lingo to themselves! How many hundreds and thousands of the visitors of galleries have the cup of enjoyment dashed from their lips, while admiring paintings, by hearing some pert hypercritic condemn them as deficient in “depth of shade,” “breadth of colour,” “truth of tint”—or some arbitrary quality which his brain has engendered to bewilder the uninitiated, and display his own refinement of taste and judgment! Then the host of pseudo-critics, who prick up their ears and catch the fiats of the connoisseur, become actual pests in the galleries, retailing the dicta of their superiors, and scattering doubts and dissentions among the confiding crowd—

In such a prodigious collection the great majority of pictures must be of inferior note, and unworthy of attention. There are, however, a vast number of gems and chef-d’œuvres, and on these, the traveller will, almost always, find artists (male and female) constantly employed in copying—many of them for their daily bread—not a few, as amateurs, even of the highest rank in life. Here, then, are a series of guides, more practical than all the critics which commit their lucubrations to the press.

Although Saxony is a Protestant state, it is a Catholic kingdom, and therefore there is a good sprinkling of sacred subjects in the Dresden galleries. The intentions of delineating the mysteries of our holy religion on canvas, may be pious, but the attempt to do so is little less than impious. What required the miraculous power of a Deity to effect, is not likely to be imitated in oil and colours by the hands of man. The great truths of religion are addressed to the heart rather than to the eye—to the internal feelings rather than to the external senses—to faith rather than to demonstration. Let the painter beware how he tries to reduce these to sensible and visible representations!

Be this as it may, the stranger will always find artists and artistes busy in copying Bellini’s “Christ”—Titian’s “Tribute Money”—the same painter’s “Mistress”—Veccio’s “Virgin and Infant”—P. Veronese’s “Adoration of the Virgin and Child”—“The Finding of Moses”—Giorgione’s “Meeting of Jacob and Rachael”—“The Marriage of the Doges of Venice with the Sea”—the “Four Doctors of the Church,” by Dosso Dossi—Raphael’s “Madonna de san Sisto,” the jewel of the gallery, which was bought for £8000—Corregio’s “Virgin and Child”—the “Virgin and Infant in the Manger,” the second gem of Dresden paintings,—the “Recumbent Magdalene”—“the Sacrifice of Isaac,”—“Venus and Bacchus”—Rubens’ “Descent of the Fallen Angels”—Van Dyk’s “Charles I. and Family”—Rembrandt’s “Own Self and Wife”—Poussin’s “Discovery of Moses in the Bullrushes”—Claud’s “Acis and Galatea,” &c. These and scores of others are in perpetual transition from the walls of the galleries to the easels of the copyists—hence a common complaint that such collections as these give the highest encouragement to imitators, and almost annihilate originality.

THE GREEN VAULTS.

This royal toy-shop—this magnificent museum of costly curiosities, might satiate the eyes and appetites of all the Arabian princes and princesses—of all the Persian shaws and Peruvian monarchs, that ever lived—nay, it might leave the Grand Mogul himself (could his court be re-established in Hindostan) nothing to wish for or want!

“Whoever,” says an intelligent traveller, “takes pleasure in the glitter of precious stones—in gold and silver, wrought into all sorts of royal ornaments, into every form, however grotesque, that art can give them, without any aim at either utility or beauty, will stroll with satisfaction through the apartments of this gorgeous toy-shop. They are crowded with crowns and jewels, and regal attire of a long line of Saxon princes;[89]—vases and other utensils seem to have been made merely as a means of expending gold and silver—the shelves glitter with caricatured urchins, whose bodies are often formed of huge pearls, or of egg-shells, to which are attached limbs of enamelled gold. One is dazzled by the quantity of gems and precious metals that glare around him:—he must even admire the ingenuity which has fashioned them into so many ornaments and unmeaning nick-nacks. But there is nothing that he forgets more easily, or that deserves less to be remembered.”

Mr. Russell’s opinion has been cavilled at, as not giving sufficient praise to the merit of patience labour and skill that have been expended on this royal collection. If these had resulted in things that were either useful or ornamental, the merit might have been granted; but neither the one nor the other has been the consequence of an expense equal to that of the national debt. The best exception to this general censure is—“the Court of the Great Mogul,” representing the Emperor Aurengzebe upon his throne, surrounded by his guards and courtiers, in appropriate costumes, according to the description of Tavernier. There are 132 figures, all of pure enamelled gold, which cost Dinlinger eight years’ labour, and the Saxon treasury eighty-five thousand dollars! This is decidedly the most elaborate and meritorious work in the Green Vaults; but is it more so than that which was proposed by Dinocrates—the carving of Mount Athos into a statue representing Alexander? I think the latter was the more noble of the two. The Macedonian project would have given occupation and subsistence to tens of thousands of labourers for half a century—the materials being barren rock. The Saxon enterprize occupied only one man for eight years—the material being pure gold, and precious jewels. But as men, women and children will run after pretty baubles, glittering gewgaws, and rare curiosities—and as a tax of one shilling a head is levied in the Green Vaults, a tolerable revenue is derived from this royal shew-shop, independent of the constant influx of wealth from the legions of travellers that ascend and descend the Elbe. It is but justice to acknowledge that the curators who attend visitors around these costly treasures, are polite and accomplished gentlemen, who speak various languages, and are ever ready to afford the fullest information on every subject. These vaults, the picture-galleries, and armoury, &c. are open every day in the week to the public.

RUSTKAMMER.

If a tour through the Green Vaults excites reflections on the ingenuity which man has evinced in carving inanimate materials into the shapes and forms of various living things, an inspection of the immense armoury here, is calculated to call forth emotions of a very different description! Here we find the ingenuity of man exerted and tortured in the invention of innumerable deadly weapons by which his fellow man may be carved into fragments, pierced with wounds, or battered into mummies![90] The Rustkammer certainly leaves the Tower of London at immeasurable distance in the rear, not only for the variety of instruments used in general warfare, but for those which were employed in tilts, tournaments, and the chase. Here we see not merely the arms of the feudal ages, but the horses, the knights themselves, and all the trappings and accoutrements thereunto belonging.

The prodigious labour and wealth expended on man, horse, armour, and trappings, excite our astonishment rather than our admiration. The great variety of drinking vessels, horns, goblets and cups of all dimensions, and adapted for all depths of potation, would have charmed the heart of the Baron of Bradwardine, and, well nigh eclipsed the “Blessed Bear” of that hospitable old Highlander! But what shall we say to the armour of those days—for instance, that of Augustus the Second, surnamed the Strong? The French giant, who displayed his powers some years ago, at the Adelphi theatre, would hardly strut under it, weighing, as it does, more than two hundred pounds!

It has been observed that—“were Europe thrown back, by the word of an enchanter, into the middle-ages, Saxony could take the field, with a duly equipped army, sooner than any other power. We cannot easily form any idea of the long practice which have been necessary to enable a man to wear such habiliments with comfort, much more to wield such arms with agility and dexterity. But the young officers of those days wore armour almost as soon as they could walk, and transmigrated regularly from one iron shell into another, more unwieldy than its predecessor, till they reached the full stature of knighthood, and played at broad-sword, with the weight of a twelve-pounder on their backs, as lightly as a lady bears a chaplet of silken flowers on her head in a quadrille.”

The “twelve-pounder” on the back is a pretty considerable bounce, far outstripping Jonathan’s sea-serpent, since a “twelve-pounder” would weigh at least fifteen hundred pounds! But let that pass. No discipline or early tuition would enable a person of the present day to fight in the armour of the middle-ages. It would require a series of generations trained in the habits, diet, and manners of those times, to produce a progeny capable of enduring such coats of mail, or wielding such Herculean weapons as were in use seven hundred years ago. The present age does not yield to that of any former period, in heroic deeds or personal courage; but science now supersedes brute force, and the energies of the brain amply compensate for diminution of muscular strength.[91]

As there is but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous—from solemn tragedy to laughing farce—so are there only a few paces between the great magazine of toys in the green vaults, and the great magazine of manslaughter in the Rustkammer. From these depôts we turn away, more in pity than in admiration, to repositories of a very different kind—those of the peaceful arts, that mingle with, and contribute to, our domestic comforts and social enjoyments, and which combine elegance with ornament, and utility with beauty. Need I allude to the Saxon porcelaine, celebrated over Europe and the world.

I own that I entertained a secret hope that the number of other lions in this city would drive this particular one out of the memory of my better-half. I had three reasons for this hope or wish:—1st, the saving of expense—2d, of carriage and breakage—3d, of—smuggling! But I had calculated without my host. Just when we had come to the conclusion, that we had now seen all the sights, it was suddenly recollected that the best of all was happily yet in reserve—the porcelaine manufactory! No. You may as well attempt to drag a lady from Geneva without purchasing trinkets, as from Dresden without buying China. A compact, however, was signed, that we were only to enjoy the luxury of viewing the repository, without encumbering our luggage with any of its precious but brittle wares. Nevertheless, it happened that some of the articles were found to be so “dog cheap,” and so pretty withall, that, to leave the Elbe without taking away some specimens of its renowned manufactures, was considered to be a kind of travelling solecism, if not a porcelaine suicide! It was urged, moreover, that the ad valorem duty, at an English Custom-house, would be—next to nothing. I strongly suspect that this prophecy, like many others, tended to fulfill itself, and that the duty was, as predicted, next to nothing!

We had been bored, for some days, by the Laquais de Place, to make an excursion to a place called Tharand, about ten miles from Dresden, a locality which was represented as the ne plus ultra of all that is sublime and beautiful in natural scenery—and moreover, that it was visited by every traveller who passed through Dresden. So we posted off one fine morning, and arrived at this valley of Rasselas. We found it situated where three narrow and steep defiles meet at one point, and where the ruins of an old castle, perched on a sharp promontory, overlook a small village on one side, a watering-place on the other, and the road to Dresden in front. The locality has nothing of the sublime, little of the beautiful, and less of the romantic in its composition. It is a picturesque spot, but not worth the trouble of going three miles to see it. The lacquais de place will always endeavour to eke out an additional day’s boar hunting, when lionizing is at an end.

Of the Dresdenese themselves, it is “not my hint to speak.” They are like most other people under similar latitudes, institutions, and governments. Like most continental folks, they are fond of sitting in the open air, smoking their pipes and sipping their coffee. And no wonder. The air of the Bruhl Terrace, raised above the Elbe, and commanding a fine view of the opposite bank, as it stretches away towards Saxon Switzerland, contrasts wonderfully with the stagnant atmosphere and gloomy apartments of their own houses. The demolition of the fortifications round Dresden has given such lungs to the Saxon metropolis as must greatly increase the longevity of its inhabitants—contrary to what is likely to occur to the “heroes of the barricades,” who will now be barricaded, with a vengeance!

Saxony being a favourite pupil of the “Grande Nation,” the “glorious days of July” were rehearsed on the banks of the Elbe, and a representative constitution was extorted, without much force, from the king. The conversion of one archon (mon-arch) into three hundred archons elected by the people, and forming the “tiers etat,” or house of representatives, did not realize the golden dreams of the country. On the contrary, as the odious task of levying taxes was shifted from the shoulders of the king, who was always economical, to be divided among 300 representatives, the latter body nearly doubled the taxes, being now mere tools of the court!

However, the Saxons have obtained important privileges, and great extension of the franchise. Among other valuable rights acquired, by the people, is that of electing their executioner! This interesting functionary is considered a kind of gentleman—at least he is an officer of state, which is next thing to it—and has a house, land, and several perquisites attached to the office. Among these last is a claim to the bodies of all horses and cattle that die a natural death. This revenue from hoofs, horns, and hides, is said to be very considerable. It would be equally amusing and edifying to hear the professions and promises of the candidate for headsman[92] delivered from the hustings, during the canvass. One of the promises or temptations held out by this “limb of the law”—this “sharp practitioner”—this member of the executive—would, doubtless, be that, should any of his constituents honour him with their custom, he would be happy to serve them, on the shortest notice, on the most liberal terms, and with the utmost dispatch!

DRESDEN to LEIPZIG.

The steam-engine possesses the all but miraculous power of contracting space and expanding time. Thus, it compresses the sixty-two miles between Dresden and Leipzig into fifteen miles—while it enables a three hours’ run by rail to throw off an expansion of ten spare hours to see the great emporium of books on the banks of the Estler, which hours would otherwise be spent in traversing the most monotonous road that ever man or beast drew their weary limbs along! Corn, corn, nothing but corn, or the bare stubble from which it was cut, meets the tired eye between the city of the pallet and the city of the pen. We become as sick, indeed, of wheat and oats, as the unwashed artisan of Birmingham is of the laws that confine these oceans of grain to the banks of the Elbe and the Vistula, instead of being diffused through the factories and work-shops of England—to appease the hunger and invigorate the limbs of a dense and manufacturing population. The rapidity of the train, the clanking of the machinery, the belching of steam, the evolution of smoke, and the scattering of burning cinders, render the three hours’ journey bearable enough. There is but one long tunnel, (between Dresden and Magdeburg) through which the train runs and roars and spits its fires—while at another place, it leaps clean over the river Elbe! A rail-road in the North of Germany is quite an oasis in the desert. One hundred and forty miles from Dresden to Magdeburg, with Leipzig in the centre, occupy only seven or eight hours, instead of three or four toilsome days by the snail-post.

LEIPZIG.

Having had a good deal—perhaps too much—to do with books, I had some curiosity to see this great mart of buckhandlungs—at once the cradle and the grave of literature! The first thing that strikes the stranger is the eternal “buckhandlung” over every second door in the city. The next, is the paucity of carriages—a drowsky or a private vehicle being rarely visible. The third object is perpetually reminding us, not without sighs and groans, of the smooth trottoirs over which we were wont to glide in modern Babylon. Of all the towns through which I have limped and hobbled in my journey of life, Leipzig bears the palm for maiming and laming the unfortunate visitor, by means of its sharp stones and uneven pavée. I wonder that the seven-leagued and iron-shod boots of the students, together with the innumerable tomes of heavy literature that are biennially carted through the streets of Leipzig, have not ground off the angles from the said stones. Yet they have not.

As I was unwilling to do the penance of Peter Pindar’s pilgrim, I directed my steps to the observatory, and mounted its highest balcony, when Leipzig and its contiguous battle-field lay stretched beneath me. The astronomer kindly pointed out the topography of the city and its vicinity, with minute details of the great combat which he himself had witnessed. Leipzig is a curious compound of the modern and the antique—one side being new and the other old. But in every street, bustle and business went on, while on every countenance thought and reflection were so visibly painted that one would suppose the whole of the books that came to the two fairs were studied by the inhabitants. The demolition of the fortifications has secured the Leipzigers two things—the presence of healthful walks, and the absence of bloody sieges—blessings and curses which the Parisians seem neither to desire nor dread. Cities should never be converted into fortresses. The extent of the works and the number of the people are causes of weakness and not strength. A fortress should only contain soldiers, who can lay in provisions against long investment, and on whom, not on citizens, the horrors of war should fall.

I have said that this city is the cradle of literature. No biblio-parturient author in Germany would think of being confined, and delivered of his bantling of the brain, without the aid of a Leipzig accoucheur. Whether his cerebro-gestation may have lasted nine months, or, as Horace directs—as many years—

Mr. Brockhaus, or some of his obstetrical brethren in Leipzig, must usher the “nouveau né” into light.

But I have also said that Leipzig is the grave as well as the cradle of literature, or rather of its authors. At every fair there is a number of fairies on the look out for every promising birth, which is immediately kidnapped—wrested from its lawful parents—and sold in distant markets! In other words:—whenever a work of merit, or apparent merit, appears in the Leipzig fair, it is pounced upon by literary sharks and vultures from Frankfort, Wirtemburg, and other places, and instantly reprinted for the benefit of those who have gone to no outlay in brains or money! It is in vain that authors and publishers complain. The former are told that, although they have pocketed nothing by their long literary toil, they have earned reputation, which is greatly superior to sordid gold; while the publishers are laughed at for their foolish speculations! Hence it is, that authors of the most splendid talents and universal renown, are often forced to publish by subscription—a mode that would damn, or at least, degrade them in the eyes of a British public. It may be said that—

and that, though authors and booksellers are defrauded, the public are gainers. But private industry is as deserving of protection as private property—and there can be no doubt that many men of great talent and learning are discouraged by these piracies, and deterred from embarking in literary labours. This uncertainty too prevents all liberal outlay on paper and type, both of which are disgracefully bad in Germany.

Leipzig is not without interesting associations and reminiscences. But some of the historical are too remote—some too recent—to be dwelt on here. The poetical are too extravagant—and the literary too mystified for much notice in this place. Yet we cannot bid adieu to this cradle and grave of literature, without a passing thought on two of its magnates—Gottsched and Klopstock—the former, the father of modern German learning—the latter, the Goliath of the same. Gottsched was born to be a great man—for his stature was such that he abandoned, through pure modesty, his native land, and took refuge in Leipzig, lest he should be promoted to the rank of a grenadier in the army of Frederick the Great. There he claimed the character of an universal genius, acting, at once, the philosopher, grammarian, critic and poet. But his body was bigger than his brains, and he is now consigned to oblivion—perhaps unjustly so. His language then (1740-60) was just emerging from barbarism. It was a period of transition, and shewed no signs of vigorous life. “He introduced a more cultivated style—attacked pedantic extremes—and excited useful controversy.”

Passing over Schlegel, Gellert, and other literary lions of Leipzig, we must bear in mind that it was from this mart of learning that the great Klopstock, like a huge gymnatus electricus, caused Europe to vibrate by the birth of his Messiah. “It roused all Germany from Leipzig to its circumference; and Bodmer, from the valleys of Switzerland, hailed its author as the morning-star of a new æra.”

RETROSPECTIVE VIEW FROM THE TOWER OF THE OBSERVATORY.

He must be a stoic, or something more, who can stand on this time-worn tower, without recalling to mind those stupendous events which occurred a quarter of a century ago, around the base of the building. No event, ancient or modern, can at all compare with the battles around Leipzig, in Oct. 1814: whether we look to the magnitude of the armies—the discipline, valour, and enthusiasm of the men—the talents and skill of the commanders—or the momentous object for which they fought. Six crowned heads—three Emperors and three Kings—were present at these terrific conflicts, and witnessed the carnage and havoc among five hundred thousand soldiers engaged for several days and nights in mortal combat!! This was not the undisciplined rabble, or the effeminate retinue of an Oriental despot, crossing the Hellespont in pride and ignorance; but veterans from every country between the mountains of Norway and the mouths of the Danube—between the Atlantic on the West and Siberia in the East. These battles were not for mere victory, or to decide some political quarrel between two or more states. No. It was for the very existence of sceptres—for the independence or subjugation of every empire and kingdom in Continental Europe. The struggle was between the oppressor and the oppressed—between Napoleon the aggressor, and the allied Sovereigns, as defenders of their crowns, hearths, and altars. The one army had the disgrace of a hundred defeats to obliterate and avenge—the other the laurels of a hundred victories to preserve and sustain. The French fought for the glory of their country, or rather of their Emperor, and the conquest of Europe—the Allies, for the liberation of their soil from thraldom, and the repulsion, if not the deposition, of a tyrant invader.

Such a prodigious accumulation and concentration of martial hosts,—excited, agitated, and impelled by the fiercer passions of our nature—by ambition, hatred, and revenge—portended the approach of some great crisis in the affairs of the world. The feeling on both sides was, evidently, “aut Cæsar aut nullus.” The grand crisis was indeed at hand. The benignant Star of Peace and Justice was about to rise, in splendour, from the East;—while the malignant Meteor of War, that had scattered, for twenty years, plague, pestilence and famine over a groaning world, was about to descend from its bad eminence, and be extinguished for ever in the Atlantic surge.

Napoleon, with all his strength of mind, was superstitious; having some peculiar notions about fate, and destiny, and stars and fortune—as though these imaginary beings had any power to control the laws of Nature, or interfere between cause and effect, whether in the moral or physical world.

It is not improbable that, when, in the night of the 15th October, Napoleon saw three “death-rockets” rise from the southern horizon, streaming their pale but brilliant light high through the Heavens—and, when, immediately afterwards, he beheld four blood-red meteors springing up far far to the northward, indicating too plainly that the signal from the grand Austro-Russian army in the South was answered by the Swedo-Prussian in the North, his moral courage may have experienced a momentary depression, and his superstition an alarm! There was little time, however, for reflection. Action, action was soon required. At the dawn of day the Austro-Russian army attacked the whole southern front of the French position with great fury but no success. Six desperate attempts were reiterated, one after the other—but all failed! This was discouraging enough—worse remained behind. The moment of exhaustion among the allied troops was seized upon by Napoleon, who, by one gigantic effort, pierced and penetrated the very centre of the allied line, while Murat, Maubourg, and Kellerman, dashed through the gap with the whole of the cavalry! At this moment of frightful peril, when the torrent of French troops was pouring through the fatal breach with irresistible impetuosity, shouting and exulting in the successful exploit, Alexander called to his faithful Cossack guards, and pointing to the column of French cavalry that was thundering forward in the rear of the allies, addressed a few, and but a few words to them—probably not dissimilar from those of our own poet, at another terrific combat—

The valorous Pulk right well fulfilled the emperor’s order. The “furious Huns” sprang, like tigers, on the “fiery Franks,” and not only charged and checked the headlong torrent, but rolled back the dense mass of cavalry at the point of their spears, with destructive carnage, through the opening by which it had penetrated the Austro-Russian line. Thus, at the moment when all appeared lost for the allies, a handful of semi-savages from the banks of the Don overwhelmed the finest body of French horse that ever paraded on the banks of the Seine—and that with the King of Naples at its head!

After this rebuff, the fickle goddess forsook her favourite child! The assailing armies hemmed in, closer and closer, the contracting circles of Napoleon’s troops, and after days of ineffectual struggles to revive a sinking cause, the hero of a hundred victories was obliged to sue for an armistice! No answer being returned, the mortified emperor prepared for retreat. But even here Fortune turned her back on him. The Saxon troops threw off their allegiance, and even fired on their former companions in arms, while endeavouring to extricate themselves from the western gate of Leipzig! The only bridge, too, by which they could escape, was blown up by mistake, while twenty-five thousand Frenchmen were left prisoners on the other side! Napoleon with difficulty reached the western bank of the Estler—Poniatouski was drowned in that muddy ditch—and a mere wreck of the Gallic army reached the Rhine. From that day, the star of Napoleon descended till its light was quenched for ever in the western wave! Of all the auxiliaries and mercenaries which various passions, propensities, necessities, or interests had attracted round the standard of the victorious emperor, one only remained true to its trust in the memorable retreat from Leipzig! Italians, Bavarians, Saxons, Swedes—

It may not require any great fortitude to meet the scowl or scorn of our enemy, whether conqueror or conquered; but he must have nerves of iron who can look in the face of friend betrayed. The sight of the gallant and deceived Poles, bearing nobly the hardships and miseries of a disastrous flight, might have wrung tears of remorse from Napoleon’s eyes. But he had no heart. Egotism was the nutriment on which even his ambition fed. What said he, when viewing the wretched remains of his army when it halted at Erfurt, on the 23d of October? “They are a set of scoundrels, who are going to the devil.” Retributive justice ordained that he himself should not be far behind them!

The Tower of the Observatory stands close to the Estler and the scene of the dreadful evacuation of the town, the death of Poniatouski, and the blowing up of the bridge. It also commands a view of most of the theatres of operations during the successive battles, besides an excellent bird’s-eye view of the town itself. No one should fail to visit this spot, and recall the mighty events which occurred around it.

MAGDEBURG to HAMBURG.

A good railroad whisks us along, through monotonous corn-fields, from Leipzig to Magdeburg, in three or four hours. This is the strongest fortification (always excepting Kœnigstein) on the Elbe—and contains more than fifty-thousand people, garrison and all. It is, or rather was, in Saxony; but, thanks to the auspices of Napoleon, in favour of his pet of Dresden, it is now Prussian, and likely to be long so. It is of immense extent, and would require thirty or forty thousand men to defend it—consequently double that number to invest it. As all great virtues are assailed by virulent abuse, so all strong cities are honoured with long sieges. The history of Magdeburg should be printed and posted on the gates of Paris. It has had its ups and downs in its day. It was besieged many a time, and sometimes taken. Although it repulsed the famous Count Wallenstein, in the thirty years’ war, it fell, after two years’ siege, before the magnanimous Tilley (1631), who sacked the city; but in his humanity, spared the whole of the inhabitants—except thirty thousand, whom he massacred, without distinction of age or sex!! These are among the “splendid miseries” to which fortified towns and cities have been entitled, time immemorial—from the days of Alexander and Titus, to those of Napoleon and Wellington—from the sacred heights of Solyma, to the sandy plains of Haerlem! This doubtful glory—this dangerous pre-eminence, appears to be the height of a great people’s ambition—though it is probable that a nation’s strength has more in its moral courage and physical energies, than in dead walls and deep ditches.

A steamer starts at five o’clock every morning from Magdeburg to Hamburg, and when the Elbe is not very low, the passage may be performed in one day. But fortunately, or unfortunately, we had not had a wet day, or hardly a cloud in the sky, from the day we left London, till our return to that metropolis, and therefore the river was so shallow, that we were forty-eight hours on the voyage. There never was a vessel that had a greater partiality for the ground than ours—and when once her keel and the sand came in contact, it was as difficult to separate them as to disengage two furious mastiffs joined in mortal combat. Our captain, too, had a singular method of loosening his vessel from her hold on the shoal. Instead of carrying out an anchor astern, and dragging her off in that direction, as we drag dogs from one another by their tails, he invariably took the anchor out a-head, and after prizing the vessel as far forward on the bank as possible, he then tried the retrogressive plan, and, of course, succeeded, though sometimes after two or three hours’ delay. At length we came to a dead stop—for there was not three feet water in any part of the river; so we were obliged to shift into another steamer, “below bar” and jogged along, as above the barrier, but more of our time passed aground than afloat. However, we had a very pleasant society on board—people from various countries—very good table-d’hôte—but, as the weather was fine, and the berths close and crowded, I picked out the softest plank I could find on deck, and slept in the open air, during our descent of the Elbe. There is little or no improvement of the scenery between Dresden and the mouth of the river. The Elbe pays a heavy fine in the shape of monotony for its short but romantic route through Saxon Switzerland!

HAMBURG.

From the muddy wharves and quays, we scramble up through steep streets, every second house having an inscription, or rather an advertisement in English on its walls or over the door Of the Babel tongues that salute the ear in every part of this city, the English seems to hold the next rank to German and Dutch. Whether it was from the lowness of the Elbe, and the long drought, I know not, but the canals that penetrate far up several of the streets, appeared abominably filthy and malodorous. Three-fourths indeed of their bottoms were bare of water, and only exhibited reeking mud, well impregnated with all kinds of animal and vegetable debris, and admirably calculated to spread pestilential disorders through the city.

At length we got to what might be termed “the West End,” though it is here the North or North-East quarter, and the scene is entirely changed. We find ourselves, all at once, on the borders of a spacious lake, which is narrowed in the middle, and spanned there by a bridge, exhibiting on its surface numerous pleasure-boats, and on its banks a succession of handsome buildings. Shaded walks and terraces are constructed along the shores, so that these lakes (for they may be considered as two formed by a bridge) really present a most refreshing picture to the eye in Summer, and furnish a magnificent skating-plain in Winter. The levelled fortifications are now converted into superb and extensive promenades, gardens, and shrubberies, exhibiting a pleasing contrast to the endless batteries, fosses, and bastions of Magdeburg and other fortified towns. No city or town on the Continent, that I have seen, presents anything like the bustle of business that is going forward in every street of Hamburg. Leipzig is nothing to it, since it wants all the elements and materiel of maritime commerce. The great hotels face the lake (which, by the bye, is a monstrous dam formed by a dribbling stream, the Alster) and the Salles-a-Manger there, shew us that we are almost clean out of Germany, and nearly in the heart of old England. The table-d’hôte is at four o’clock, where good substantial joints and dishes dance merrily round the table, and are eagerly demolished by stomachs sharply whetted on the exchange, the bureaus, warehouses, and shops of this most singular entrepôt of European merchandize; The Hamburghers and Leipzigers appear to belong to the class of ruminating animals, who flock to the table-d’hôte for the purpose of swallowing, or rather bolting their dinners, dispensing entirely with the process of mastication, and leaving the triple functions of rumination, digestion, and calculation to go on simultaneously, not successively, by which many hours of valuable time are daily gained for the dispatch of business. I will not maintain that this bolting system, followed by the hard labour of two important organs, the head and the stomach, at one and the same time, is equally as well calculated for the preservation of health as for the accumulation of wealth; but probably it is not more insalubrious than the ennui, the inertion, the eternal pipe, and the poisonous dishes of the noncommercial Germans in general.

It is upon the same principle of economy of time, and division of labour, that the Hamburghers hire professed mourners to weep and wail over their deceased relatives. By this ingenious procedure the business of the living is not interrupted by the departure of the dead—perhaps not even on—

When the Hamburghers levelled their fortifications to the ground, they took care to leave certain portals or barriers standing, by which they might be enabled to levy contributions on—“the stranger within their gates,” as well as on those who are outside. The nocturnal tax on ingress and egress increases with every hour after sunset, and the bustle and confusion occasioned by the embarkations and debarkations of steam-travellers with their luggage, baffle all description. The drowskies and their cads, the porters and their wads, the janitors, the police, and the watermen—all jumbled in the darkness of the night about the water-gate of the city—all vociferating in the most discordant jargon; but all united in the strictest harmony of action, as to one operation—the patriotic endeavour to empty the passengers’ purses of every stray mark that might be encumbering their pockets—such a scene is not easily delineated, nor will it be forgotten!

A good steamer, fair weather, and a pleasant company, rendered a forty-eight hours’ run to modern Babylon an agreeable variety in the chequered scenes of a long tour.

CHARACTERISTIC TRAITS OF GERMANY AND THE GERMANS.

Having now brought my various perambulations (at various times) through Germany to a close, it might be thought possible that a traveller could form some definite idea—or draw some distinctive character of the people themselves. This is more easy in theory than in practice. If an intelligent Japanese were conveyed through the air to Connaught or Kerry, and dropped there for a month, to observe the manners, habits, and character of the inhabitants:—if he were thence deposited in Yorkshire, for an equal time—then among the mountains of Wales—and finally in the Highlands of Scotland: and if, after all this, “he returned to the place from whence he came,” and was asked for some characteristic sketch of the British nation, he would be not a little puzzled. In the first place, he would assert that he had visited four nations, differing as much from each other as the shamrock differs from the rose, or the thistle from the leek. They differed in appearance, language, dress, manners, diet, drink, avocations—soil—climate—and, for aught he knew, in religious creeds. If pressed for some one characteristic common to all, he might be tempted to reply that the only one thing in which they all agreed was—to eat potatoes. However varied were the other component parts of their food, they all ate potatoes. Now if, within the narrow boundary of the British Isles, we find such diversity among their inhabitants, what may we expect in that huge democracy of autocracies that stretches from the Baltic to the Adriatic—from the banks of the Rhine to the confines of the Russ—which extends over a surface of fifty thousand square miles—bears a population of 38 millions of souls—and, what is still more remarkable, sustains a weight of 38 sovereignties, of all shapes and sizes, from Imperial Austria, of 12,000 square miles, down to the principality of Lichtenstein, covering the enormous area of ten or eleven! Throughout these vast and varied territories, there is diffused all the varieties of physical organization, moral temperament, and intellectual capacity, characteristic of the great European family. And yet there is a certain degree of family likeness in these 38 sovereignties, that can hardly be mistaken.

1. Physiognomy.—The large head, the square face, the blue eyes, the honest countenance, the solemn gait, the modest mein, and the punctilious manners of the German, are everywhere conspicuous.

2. The Language.—This, it must be confessed, is grating enough to the ear; but it is far more disagreeable to the eye! When will Germany discard that barbarous, or at least Gothic system of hieroglyphics, by which bad paper is disfigured by worse type! There is something so singular, not to say startling, in the German language, that if a mummy who had slept in one of the Pyramids since the days of Sesostris were to awake among a mixed company of antiquarian unrollers, the German tongue would surely be the first to tickle its withered ears.

3. Ideology.—The Germans are great dreamers—magnificent dreamers. The Italian may imagine, the Frenchmen invent, the Spaniard may ruminate, and the Dutchman may calculate; but it is the German who can dream while wide awake. A German will dream you a dream, as long (to use a nautical phrase) as the main-top-bow-line; or rather as an epic poem, and as full of reality as the latter.

4. If the four British races were unanimous only in one thing—the eating of potatoes;—the 38 sovereignties beat them in this respect. All ranks and classes smoke tobacco—and both sexes devour sour-krout, grease, and vinegar.

5. The Patience of the German is proverbial. He is patient in politics, affliction, adversity—and, what is still more commendable, in prosperity. Hence he wins and loses at the gaming-table with more equanimity than any other man.

6. In Religion, Germany presents nearly as many creeds as principalities. These, however, shoot forth from the Reformed Church. Popery is too poor a soil for the growth of “heresies and schisms.” It will not bear a plurality of faiths. If Catholicism be not the true belief, we must admit that Catholics are the true believers. Of all the deviations from the Protestant Church in Germany, Rationalism and Scepticism are the most prominent and dangerous. Speaking of the latter, Dr. Hawkins observes:—“We must anticipate, however reluctantly, that, not only in Germany, but in some other parts of Europe, the heaviest calamity impending over the whole fabric of society is the lengthening stride of bold Scepticism.” And, after describing the tenets of the Rationists, the same authority remarks:—“They consequently disclose to us the frightful fact, that all the essential doctrines of Christianity are unreservedly rejected.” A question might here be asked: is this widespreading state of no belief—of no religion—preferable to Catholicism, mixed up with a few superstitions and errors?

We hear constant complaints that Popery is on the increase. How can it be otherwise? Where and when was union not a source of strength, and division of weakness? The Protestant High Church is like a brilliant meteor shooting through the air in splendour and brightness; but constantly detaching from its own body some vital elements of its own existence. The Catholic Church, on the other hand, is like a snow-ball rolling along the ground, with apparent humility, a dense and cohesive mass, alike tenacious of that which it possesses, and attractive of that which falls in its way.[93]

7. Affability.—I have before remarked, and it is remarked by all travellers, that, in no part of Europe or the world, are affability, amenity, and suavity of manners, in social intercourse, more conspicuous among all classes, orders, genera, and species of society, than in Germany; or a more complete absence of all prominent or repulsive distinction of ranks. I endeavoured to account for this by education, habit, and example. But there is one other cause adduced by Dr. Hawkins, which I overlooked—the numerous sovereignties and states into which Germany is divided, the very inter-collisions of which tend to preserve a smoother surface, and a greater equilibrium of urbanity, than under one great monarchy, or even republic. I shall attempt to illustrate this moral phenomenon by a physical one. Let us take two small and tranquil lakes, one to represent England, and the other Germany. Let a large stone be dropped into the centre of the former, and we shall quickly observe a series of waves or undulations, rolling in excentric circles to the remotest edges of the water, in every direction—all parallel, all close to each other, but never touching or mingling. This exactly represents the gradations of rank, classes, professions, and avocations in England. They diverge from the central monarchy in parallel lines down to the peasant—always in close approximation; but never touching or amalgamating.

Into the other lake, let 38 stones, of various shapes and sizes (corresponding with the 38 sovereignties) be precipitated in as many different parts of the glassy mirror. What shall we see? Not the series of distinct waves rolling from centre to circumference—but a chequered surface where one undulation is broken, crossed, or neutralized by another, and where large or definite circles of waves are nowhere perceptible. The application of this simile to German society requires no explanation.

8. Education.—It is acknowledged that, in no other country is education so cheaply and amply provided as in Germany. It is remarked by Dr. Hawkins, that the results of education in Germany and in England, are very different. In the former, the student is almost entirely engrossed by the physical and practical sciences—whilst the English one is very much occupied with theology, morality, classics, poetry, and rhetoric. “Yet in the end, the Englishman becomes most practical, and the German the most theoretical and sentimental.” With all due deference to Dr. Hawkins, I doubt or rather deny the fact, that the practical education of the German renders him theoretical: or that the theoretical education of the Englishman makes him practical. Will Dr. H. maintain that a good education in the physical and practical sciences would convert an Englishman into a theorist or sentimentalist? No, it would not. It is not the education, but the different circumstances in which the two people are placed, after leaving the schools, that produce the contrast noticed by Dr. Hawkins. A complaint is made that this facility of education leads to surplus candidates for professional honours; and the German governments endeavour to divert the aspirants into other channels than the learned professions. But where is there not this surplus? In England, where education is expensive enough, the ranks of the church, bar, and medicine, are crowded to suffocation. Two causes of this operate in Germany. The cheapness of education—and the cheapness of living afterwards.—Two or three in England—the redundancy of population, and the choaking up of the war-channels, those waste-pipes and safety-valves of society. To these may be added the restless ambition of the shopocracy to push some of their sons into the carriage from behind the counter.

A considerable portion of the English consider that education (among the lower classes) without a particular creed, is worse than no education at all. The real, though not the acknowledged meaning of this is, that education, or knowledge, is, in the abstract, or per se, an evil rather than a good. It would be much better to openly and candidly maintain this doctrine at once, than mystify it under the term “religious instruction,” that is, instruction combined with a particular creed. An ingenious casuist might easily shew—perhaps prove—the truth of the anti-education doctrine. Beginning with the Garden of Eden, he might quote Scripture that knowledge first

And descending along the stream of time, he might adduce proofs that, in exact proportion as nations advanced in knowledge, they became discontented, refractory, immoral, and irreligious. But though it is maintained by the High Church party in England, that a particular creed, without knowledge, is preferable to knowledge without a particular creed; yet it is confessed that the latter is not always an infallible corrector of the evil inherent in learning. We too often find sin and science in those academic bowers where the thirty-nine Articles are regularly inculcated, and implicitly believed.

Be this as it may, in Germany, reading, writing, and arithmetic—Greek, Latin, and mathematics—astronomy, geography, and navigation—anatomy, physic, and surgery, &c. &c. are taught in public seminaries without reference to any other creed than that of the general truth of Christianity as contained in the New Testament.

Some few particulars of the system of education in Prussia, may not be uninteresting.

Every department has a board of education, which employs school-inspectors, residing in the chief towns. Every circle and parish has also its school-board—and every school its proper inspectors. The clergyman of the parish is, ex officio, one of the inspectors. The whole system is under the cognizance and control of the Minister of Public Instruction, assisted by a Council. The seminaries are divided into—1. Elementary or Primary Schools—2, Burgher, or Middle Schools—3, Universities.

Parents unable to prove that they can give their children a competent education at home, are compelled to send them to school at the age of five years. Masters are obliged to give their servants and apprentices a suitable education between the seventh and fourteenth year. No child can be removed from the school till examined by the inspectors. Poor parents are furnished with the means of sending their children to school. The schools are supported by endowments—tax upon property—and contributions from the affluent. The schools are built in healthy places, with playgrounds, gymnasiums, &c. “The first law of every school is to train up the young so as to implant in their minds a knowledge of the relation of man to God—and to excite them to govern their lives according to the spirit and precepts of Christianity.” The daily occupations begin and end with a short prayer and some pious reflections. The New Testament shall be given to those who can read. The more advanced scholars shall have the Bible. “This book shall also be used for the religious instruction in all the classes of gymnasiums (or middle schools.)” “Clergymen are to seize every opportunity, whether at church or on visits of inspection, of reminding teachers of their high and holy mission, and the scholars of their duty towards the public instructors.” There are numerous “normal schools” for training up schoolmasters. Of all the children in Prussia, between the age of seven and fourteen years, it is calculated that thirteen out of every fifteen, are educated in the national schools.

9. Learning.—That depth of erudition should be a necessary sequence of cheap education may admit of question, or, at least of cavil; but one thing is certain, that, whether as a post hoc, or a propter hoc, this article is more abundant in Germany than in any other country. Germany is, in fact, the great European granary of learning—a granary sadly infested with rats and mice from poorer soils—whole shoals of these vermin being seen crossing the Rhine annually, with all the voracity evinced by their forefathers, when in pursuit of the Bishop of Maintz!

But Germany is also a vast minery, where thousands are digging in the dark, during the best years of their lives, extracting the most precious literary lore from the masses of rubbish in which it lies concealed. Around the mouths of these mines are always hovering certain birds of prey, of passage, and of furtive propensities, which, under cover of the night, commit depredations on the shining ore that is rescued from its grave by the laborious miner. Among these are the literary cormorant, the gull, the daw, and the magpie, who no sooner get crammed with the German spoils, than they fly off to their roosts and nests to exhibit them as the legitimate produce of their own industry. I have known more than one, two, or three of these daws who, having plumed themselves in German feathers, strutted as proudly as if their habiliments had been of genuine indigenous growth!

The German seems to court, and to cultivate learning for the sake of itself, rather than of its attendant advantages. He climbs the rugged steeps of science—wanders over the flowery fields of literature—or explores the dark and mysterious labyrinths of metaphysics—with little hope, and less prospect of reaping more than empty fame,—and that too often posthumous! Yet the German is as modest in the profession, as he is industrious in the pursuit of knowledge. In his patient researches, he is hardly ever led aside to the right or to the left, by ambition, vanity, or avarice. Truth is his object—accuracy, impartiality, and laborious research, are the channels through which he reaches it. Not that he is insensible to honours of all kinds. On the contrary, like the whole of his countrymen, a ribbon, a cross, or a star, is to him not only a symbol of distinction but an object of worship.

The German illuminati, whether literary, philosophic, or scientific, immersed in their libraries and laboratories, far removed from the excitement of politics, commerce, arts, or manufactures, not seldom lean to the speculative, rather than to the practical—to the mysterious, rather than to the obvious.—Hence the transcendental dreams and extravagant experiments, which daily rise, like meteors, from this land of ideality and metaphysics, soon to dissolve in air—thin air. Yet these eccentricities are not attributable to peculiarity of education, or idiosyncrasy of constitution; but to those extrinsic circumstances in which the German is placed.

10. The Press.—The freedom with which this powerful engine is wielded in the different states of Germany, varies very much. Between Vienna and Leipzig-liberty of the press, there is nearly as much difference as between Negro freedom in Virginia and London. But the censorship exists everywhere. The manuscript of volume, magazine, or newspaper must first undergo the revisal of the phlegmatic and inexorable Censor, who strikes out or alters every passage or paragraph which has any tendency to exercise the imagination, excite the feelings, or appeal to the passions. This at least, is the policy of Austria. Now it would require but little ingenuity to prove—or at least, persuade, that this is the very ne plus ultra of good government. What engines are so potent in the origination and propagation of evil as imagination, feeling, passion? How praiseworthy is it in the Austrian Emperor to stifle and suppress all combustible materials of this kind!—How beneficial would the Censorship prove in England! Take, for instance, the subject of libel—so well calculated to introduce all kinds of hatred and ill-will amongst Britons. The Age or the Satirist might, without the possibility of prevention, assert that “the Queen was—anything but a gentlewoman:”—and that “the Chancellor of the Exchequer was lately detected in picking the pocket of one of his neighbours on the treasury bench!!” Now if such paragraphs came before an Austrian Censor, that redoubtable official would either erase them entirely and cite the audacious editor before one of the tribunals, or substitute something like the following:—“From all parts of the country congratulatory addresses are pouring in upon her Majesty, in consequence of the recent happy event.” And in respect to the alleged pick-pocket, it would probably run thus:—“The recent financial measure of the Chancellor of the Exchequer (the imposition of a tax on rent-gatherers), has given universal satisfaction to all classes of the community—with the exception, perhaps, of Daniel O’Connel, M.P., who opposed the measure so stoutly in parliament.”

But the prevention of all sources of excitement and irritation amongst the community, so much preferable to the punishment of them afterwards, would not be the only advantage of a shackled, that is, a censored press. The great majority of writers, who, being defective in imagination, feeling, and passion—in other words, of genius—are now consigned to oblivion, would, under the paternal Austrian system, spring up in myriads, and greatly tend to render the Plumbean rule of authority a veritable wand of Mercury, soothing the great mass of society into soporific torpor, and silencing effectually those turbulent spirits of the age, who stir up men’s minds to mischief! Away then with those hot-headed enthusiasts who prefer a “libertas periculosa” to the Austro-patriarchal system of “servitudo quieta,” where the fiat of the sovereign is the fate of the subject!!

Then think of the incalculable benefit that would accrue to society from the suppression of those myriads of critical and political reviewers, trimestral, mestral, hebdomadal, and diurnal, who batten and fatten on the vitals of authors, scattering their quivering members to the winds, or flinging them about, like firebrands, to inflame the passions of the community! In fine, till princes muzzle the press, there will be no millennium between them and their people.

11. Domestic Manners.—A treatise on the domestic manners of the French and Germans, is like an essay on the rail-roads of the Alps in the days of Hannibal—or steam-navigation in the voyage of Nearchus—or the mariner’s compass in the Periplus of Hanno. Let us hear the testimony of one who resided long in Germany, and was intimate with their habits and language.

“The Germans are not so domestic as the English, yet perhaps more so than the French. The taste of the middle and lower classes carries them necessarily to public gardens, coffee-houses, the table-d’hôte, and the theatre. A large portion of the male population dine daily at the table-d’hôte, and here a considerable portion of their time is dissipated. The higher orders, in addition to the theatre, derive one of their chief gratifications from a Summer visit to some of the mineral springs; and here they live all together in a family manner—entire families at these bathe dine and sup, and even breakfast in public.”—Bisset Hawkins.

It is really no paradox, therefore, to say that an insight into domestic manners in Germany, will be best acquired in public—where all classes, high, middle, and lower orders “live and move and have their being!”

12. Women.—Perhaps in no country of Europe (as indeed the preceding section would indicate) are the barriers around female honour more feebly raised, or less vigilantly guarded;—yet in no country is female virtue more free from stain. “Here the temperament of woman is cast in a happy mould. Gentle, kind, unambitious, unaffected, she is less intent upon adorning herself, than in administering to the happiness of those around her. She is fenced round with few artificial restraints; and, in society, she often meets with too much laxity of opinion and usage. Her full and confiding heart requires a helpmate on whom to lean through life. This support granted to her, she generally exhibits all the domestic virtues in their vernal bloom.”

To this it has been objected that, the number of children born out of wedlock in Germany, is infinitely greater than in England. Thus, in the great city of Prague, more than a third of the children born annually are illegitimate. But mistresses may be virtuous without being married—and they may be married without being virtuous. In many countries marriage is only a civil, and not a religious rite. The neglect of that ceremony, therefore, in such countries, involves neither sin, nor crime, nor disgrace. The slender liaison of affection is often stronger and more durable than the massive chains of matrimony. The frequency of these liaisons, therefore, is to be attributed to the influence of public sentiment, rather than to depravity of the female heart. The facilities, indeed, of effecting divorce in many Protestant States of Germany render the tie of marriage little more than a nominal bond that can be conveniently cancelled, when passions cool, tempers clash, or interests predominate!

13. Morality.—Although there can scarcely be genuine religion without morality; yet there may be great display of morality without religion. Germany affords a proof and illustration. In no other country is there less of religion—in none is there less of crime. The apparent paradox is easily solved. Crime is punishable by the laws of man, in this world;—irreligion is punishable by the laws of God, in another. In a country where little or no religion prevails, and consequently where there is little or no belief in future rewards and punishments, it may readily be supposed that the fear of the magistrate is much more efficient than the fear of the Lord.