Now they thresh their way from the great house to a hostelry where the remaining portion of the pageant is awaiting their arrival. Let us stand a little on one side and view the procession. The threshers lead the way, singing and plying their flails as they advance, thus effectually clearing the road for the rest. A merry group of other threshers, each with his lass upon his arm, and his flail swung across his shoulder, come tripping after, singing the harvest song and dancing to their own music. Now a rude wooden car comes lumbering on, and within sits a grave man in old German costume, who from a large sack before him takes handsful of grain, and liberally casts it about him. This is the sower, but the grain is in this instance only chaff. Now follow heavy instruments of husbandry—ploughs and harrows—while rakes, scythes, and reaping-hooks form a picturesque trophy behind them. A shout of laughter greets the next figure in the procession, for it is no other than the jolly god Bacchus. And a hearty, rubicund, big-bellied god he is, and very decent, too, being decorously clad in a brown suit turned up with red, and cut in the fashion of the time of Maximilian I., or thereabouts. A perpetual smile mantles over his broad face, and complacently he pats his huge rotundity of stomach as he rolls from side to side on the barrel astride which he is seated. Is he drunk, or does he only feign? If it be a piece of acting it is decidedly the most natural we ever saw.

Next comes the miller; a lank rascal, with a white frock, a tall, white tasselled nightcap, and a cadaverous, flour-besprinkled face; and he is the reaper, too, it would seem by the scythe he bears in his hand: other threshers close the procession. A happy train it is. God speed them all! A merry time, and many a bounteous harvest!

Let us turn now upon our steps. Once more before the antique church, the reverenced grave; and with a soothed and grateful mind, we will bend our way back to Hamburg, and diving into one of the odorous cellars on the Jungfern Stieg, will delectate ourselves with beefsteaks and fried potatoes, our glass of Baierisches Bier, and perhaps a tiny schnapschen to settle our repast.



CHAPTER III.

MAGNIFICENCE.—AT CHURCH.—THE LAST HEADSMAN.

"Herrlichkeit!" Magnificence! What a name! Ye Paradise-rows, ye Mount-pleasants, what is your pride of appellation to this? In all Belgravia there is not a terrace, place, or square that can match it. Fancy the question, "Where do you reside?"

"In Magnificence—number forty."

Yet it is a fact, Magnificence is a street in Hamburg. I have lived in Magnificence.

The Herrlichkeit, like many other places of imposing title, loses considerably upon a close acquaintance. You approach it from the waterside through a rugged way, blessed with the euphonious appellation of Stuben Huck; and having climbed over two pebbly bridges—looking down as you do so at the busy scene in the docks below, where crowds of canal craft lie packed and jumbled together—you turn a little to the left hand and behold—Magnificence!

Magnificence has no footpath, but it is not singular in that respect. It is of rather less than the average width of the streets in Hamburg—and they are all narrow—and the houses are lofty. It is paved with small pebbles, and has a gutter running down the centre; and as a short flight of stone steps forms the approach to the chief entrance of each house, the available roadway is small indeed. But they are grand houses in Magnificence, at least they have been, and still bear visible signs of their former character.

Let us enter one house; it will serve as a type of many houses in Hamburg. Having mounted the stone steps, we stand before a half-glazed folding-door, and seeing a small brass lever before us, we test its power, and find the door yield to the pressure. But we have set a clamorous bell ringing, like that of a suburban huxter, for this is the Hamburger's substitute for a knocker. We enter a large stone-paved hall, lighted from the back, where a glazed balcony overlooks the teeming canal. You wish to wipe your shoes. Well! do you see this pattern of a small area-railing cut in wood? That is our scraper and door-mat—all in one.

To our right is a massive oaken staircase. We ascend in gloom, for the staircase being built in the middle of the house, only a few straggling rays of light can reach it, and whence they proceed is a mystery. Every few steps we mount we are upon the point of stumbling into the door of some cupboard or apartment; they are in all sorts of places. At length we reach a broad landing paved with stone. What a complication of doors and passages, which the vague light tends to make more obscure! Here are huge presses, lumbering oaken cabinets, jammed into corners. We ascend a second flight and arrive at another extensive landing. Here are two suites of apartments, besides odd little cribs in the corners which are not occupied by other presses. There are still two floors above, but as they are both contained in the huge gable roof of the house, they are more useful as store-rooms than as habitable apartments. The quantity of wood we see about us is frightful when associated with the idea of fire.

We will enter the suite on the right hand; the apartments are light and agreeable, and overlook the canal, and, when the tide is up, and the canal full, and the grassy bleaching ground on the opposite bank is dotted with white linen, it is a pleasant scene indeed; but when the tide is out—ugh! the River Thames at low water is a paradise to it. The tidal changes are carefully watched, and it is not an unusual occurrence to hear the solemn gun booming through the air as a warning to the inhabitants to block and barricade their cellars and kitchens against the rush of waters.

* * * * *

It is Sunday morning, and the most beautiful melody of bells I ever heard is toning through the air. They are the bells of S. Michael's church, and I am told that the musician plays them by a set of pedal keys, and works himself into a mighty heat and flurry in the operation. But we cannot think of the wild manner and mad motions of the player in connection with those beautiful sounds, so clear and melodious; that half plaintive music so sweetly measured. They ring thus every morning, commencing at a quarter to six, and play till the hour strikes.

We descend, and make our way through irregular streets and dingy canals till we reach the church of St. Jacobi. It stands in an open space, is neither railed in, nor has it a graveyard attached to it. It is of stone, and has an immense gable roof, slated, and studded with eaved windows. A shortish square basement is at one end, from which springs a tall octangular steeple. Within all is quiet and decorous. The church is paved with stone, and there is a double row of pews down the centre. But is this a Protestant Church? Most assuredly; Lutheran. You are astonished at the crosses, the images, the altar? True! there is something Romish in the whole arrangement, but it is Protestant for all that. You cannot help feeling vexed at the pertinacity with which the Germans whitewash everything, nor do the pale lavender-coloured curtains of the pulpit appear in keeping with the edifice. Everything is scrupulously clean.

We are too late to hear the congregational singing, the devotional union of voices, for as we enter the minister ascends into the pulpit in his black velvet skull-cap, and bristling white frill. Unless you are a good German scholar you will fail to understand the discourse so earnestly, so emphatically delivered. The echo of the building, and the high character of the composition, will baffle and mislead you; while, at the same time, the incessant tingling of the little silver bells suspended from the corners of scarlet velvet bags, which are handed along the pews (at the end of a stick), during the whole of the sermon, will distract and irritate you. It is thus they collect alms for the poor. Yet even to one ignorant of the language, there is a fullness and vigour in the style and manner of delivery that would almost persuade you that you had understood, and felt convinced of the truth of what you had heard. As we quit the church we purchase at the door a printed copy of the sermon from a poor widow woman, who is there to sell them at a penny each.

We will loiter home to dinner. The streets are thronged with people, with cheerful, contented faces, and in holiday attire. Who are these grave gentlemen? This little troop in sable trappings; buskins, cloaks, silken hose, hats and feathers, and shoes with large rosettes—all black and sombre, like so many middle aged Hamlets? Can they be masqueraders on the Sabbath? Possibly some of the senators in their official costume? No! Oh, human vanity! A passer-by informs us that they are only undertakers' men—paid mourners. They are to swell the funeral procession, and are the mere mimics of woe. The undertakers of Hamburg vie with each other in the dressing of their men, and indeed, one indispensable part of their "stock-in-trade" are some half-dozen dress-suits of black, it matters not of what age or country, the stranger the better, so that the "effect" be good.

* * * * *

We will take a stroll about the beautiful Alster this Sunday afternoon. It is late autumn, and the early budding trees have already shed their leaves. But rich, floating masses of foliage are still there—the deepening hues of autumn, and here and there broad patches of bright summer green. There are two Alsters, the "inner" and "outer," each of them a broad expanse of water; they are connected by flood-gates, surrounded by verdure, and studded with pleasure-boats; while on the city side several elegant pavilions hang on the water's edge, where coffee and beverages of every kind can be obtained, and the seldom omitted and never-to-be-forgotten music of the Germans may be heard thrilling in the evening air.

It is already growing dusk; let us enter the Alster Halle. This is the most important of these pavilions. It is not large; there is but the ground-floor. It has much the appearance of a French cafe, the whole space being filled with small, round, white marble tables, and innumerable chairs. Here all the lighter articles of refreshment are to be obtained; tea, coffee, wines, spirits and pastry in numberless shapes. There is an inner room where the more quietly disposed can read his newspaper in comparative silence; here are German, Danish, French, and English journals, and a little sprinkling of literary periodicals. Another room is set apart for billiards, where silent, absorbed individuals may be seen playing eternally at poule. In the evening a little band of skilled musicians, in the pay of the proprietor, perform choice morsels of beautiful music, and all this can be enjoyed for the price of a cup of coffee—twopence!



THE LAST HEADSMAN.

Ten years ago the ancient city of Hamburg was awakened into terror by the commission of a fearful murder. The cry of "Fire!" arose in the night; the nachtwachter (watchman) gave the alarm; and the few means at command were resorted to with an energy and goodwill that sufficed soon to extinguish the flames. It was, however, discovered that the fire had not done the work it had been kindled for; it would not hide murder. Among the smouldering embers in the kellar or underground kitchen, where the fire had originated, was discovered the charred body of a poor old woman, whose recent wounds were too certain evidences of a violent death. It was also ascertained that a petty robbery of some few dollars had been committed, and the utmost vigilance was called into exercise to discover the perpetrator.

All surmises were in vain, till suspicion fell upon the watchman who had first given the alarm; and the first evidence of the track of guilt being thus fallen upon, it was not difficult to trace it to its source. Numerous little scraps of evidence came out, one upon another, till the whole diabolical plot was stripped of its mystery, and the guilt of the wachter clearly proved. He was convicted of the crime imputed to him, and condemned to death by the Senate. But on receiving sentence, the condemned man assumed a tone totally unexpected of him, for he boldly asserted that the punishment of death had fallen into disuse; that it was no longer the law of Hamburg; and concluded by defying the Senators to carry the sentence pronounced into execution.

It was indeed true that the ponderous weapon of the headsman had lain for two-and-twenty years rusting in its scabbard; nor without reason. At that period a criminal stood convicted and condemned to death. The law gave little mercy in those days, and there was no hesitation in carrying the sentence into effect. But an unexpected difficulty arose; the old headsman was but lately dead, and his son, a fine stalwart young man, was, from inexperience, considered unequal to the task. A crowd of eager competitors proffered their services in this emergency, but the ancient city of Hamburg, like some other ancient cities, was hampered with antiquated usages. Its profits and other advantages were tied up into little knots of monopoly, in various shapes of privileges and hereditary rights. The young headsman claimed his office on the latter ground; to the surprise of all, his mother, the wife of the old headsman, not merely supported him in his claim, but persisted, with a spirit that might have become a Roman matron but certainly no one else, that if her son were incapable, she herself was responsible for the performance of her husband's duty, and would execute it. The Senate was in consternation, for this assertion of hereditary right was unanswerable; and while they courteously declined the offer of the chivalrous mother, they felt constrained to accept the services of her son.

The fatal morning came; the scaffold stood erected; and pressing closely around the wooden barriers, stood the anxious crowd awaiting the execution. The culprit knelt with head erect, his neck and shoulders bared for the stroke, while the young headsman stood by his side armed with the double-handed sword, the weapon of his office. At a sign given, he swung the tremendous blade in the air, and aimed a fearful blow at the neck of the condemned; but his skilless hand sloped the broad blade as it fell, and it struck deeply into the victim's breast. Amid a cry of terror he raised his sword again; again it whirled through the air, and again it failed to do its deadly work. The miserable wretch still lived; and a third stroke was necessary to complete the task so dreadfully began. Who can wonder that that fearful weapon had for years long rested from its service?

Influenced by this terrible scene, and, let us hope, as well by motives of humanity as by the conviction of the utter uselessness of such a spectacle as a moral lesson, the Senate of Hamburg had commuted the punishment of death into that of a life imprisonment. Yet now they were taunted with their unreadiness to shed blood, and dared to carry the law, as it still stood upon the statute-book, into effect. For a while it seemed that anger would govern the acts of the Senate, for every preparation was made for the execution. The headsman, whose blundering essay has been above related, was still living, but he had long filled the humble office of a messenger, and made no claim to repeat his effort. Among the many competitors who offered their services, a Dane was finally selected, and the inhabitants of Hamburg, excited to the utmost degree by the anticipation of the forthcoming spectacle, awaited the event with a morbid and gloating curiosity. They were, however, disappointed; humanity prevailed, and the guilty wachter was conducted to a life prison.

The Senate of Hamburg has not formally abolished the punishment of death; but the last hereditary headsman is now growing an old man, and the first and only stroke of his weapon was dealt thirty-two years ago.



CHAPTER IV.

WORKMEN IN HAMBURG.

Here amid the implements of labor, in the dingy werkstube in Johannis Strasse; lighted by the single flicker of an oil lamp, with the workboard for a writing-desk, let me endeavour to collect some few scattered details about the German workmen in Hamburg.

German workmen! do not the very words recall to your memory old amber-coloured engravings of sturdy men, with waving locks, grasping the arm of the printing-press, by the side of Faust, Schoeffer, and Gottenberg? Or, perhaps, the words of Schiller's "Song of the Bell" may not be unknown to you, and hum in your ears:

Frisch, gesellen, seyd zur hand! Von der stirne heiss, Rinnen muss der schweiss.

Briskly, comrades to your work! From the flushing brow Must the sweatdrops flow.

But your modern German workman is somewhat of a different stamp; he points his moustaches with black wax, trims his locks a la Francaise, and wears wide pantaloons. He tapers his waist with a leathern strap, and wears a blouse while at his labors. He discards old forms and regulations as far as he can or dare, and thus the old word "Meister" has fallen into disrepute, and the titles "Herr" and "Principal" occupy its place. Schiller, like a true poet, calls his workmen "gesellen," which is the old German word meaning companion or comrade, but modern politeness has changed it into "gehulfe," assistant; and "mitglied," member. In some places, however, the words "knecht" and "knappe," servant or attendant, are still in use to signify journeyman; as "schusterknecht," shoemaker; "schlachterknecht," butcher's man; "muhlknappe," miller; "bergknappe," miner; but these terms are employed more from habit than from any invidious distinction.

Well! we live and work on the fourth floor of a narrow slip of a house in Johannis Strasse. Herr Sorgenpfennig, our "principal," occupies the suite of four rooms, and devotes a central one (to which no light can possibly come save at second hand through the door), to his "gesellen." We are three; a quiet Dane, full of sage precepts, and practical illustrations of economy; a roystering Bavarian from Nuremberg, who never fails to grieve over the thin beer of Hamburg, and who, as member of a choral union near Das Johanneum, delights in vigorous and unexpected bursts of song; and myself.

Workmen in Hamburg are still in a state of villanage; beneath the roof of the "Herr" do they find at once a workshop, a dormitory, and a home. We endeavour so far to conform to the rules of propriety as to escape the imprisonment and other penalties that await the "unruly journeyman." The table of Herr Sorgenpfennig is our own, and a very liberal one it is esteemed to be. Let me sketch you a few of its items: delicious coffee, "white bread and brown," or rather black, and unlimited butter, make up our breakfast. Dinner always commences with a soup, usually made from meat, sometimes from herbs, lemon, sweet fruit, or other ingredients utterly indescribable. Meat, to be fit for a German table, must be carefully pared of every vestige of fat; if boiled it is underdone, unless expressly devoted to the soup, when the juiceless shreds that remain are served up with plums or prepared vegetables; if it be baked (roasting is almost unknown) it is dry and tasteless. Bacon and sausages, with their inevitable accompaniment, sourkraut, is a favourite dish; but not so unvaryingly so as some choose to imagine. Acids generally are much admired in German cookery. In nothing, perhaps, are the Hamburgers more to be envied, in a gastronomic view, than in their vegetables. Singularly small as are these products of the kitchen garden, they are sweeter and more delicately flavoured than any I ever tasted elsewhere. As entremets, and as accompaniments to meat, they are largely consumed. The Hamburgers laugh at the English cooks who boil green peas and potatoes in plain water, for here boiled potatoes are scarcely known—that nutritious vegetable being cut into slices and fried; while green peas are slowly stewed in butter or cream, and sweetened with fine sugar. But we "gesellen" have plebeian appetites, and whatever dish may be set before us, as surely vanishes to its latest shred. The little patches of puff-paste, smeared with preserve, sent to us as Sunday treat, or the curious production in imitation of our English pie, and filled with maccaroni, are immolated at once without misgiving or remorse. If we sup at all, it is upon pasty, German cheese, full of holes, as if it had been made in water, or a hot liver sausage, as an extraordinary indulgence.

And our "Licht Braten?" Herr Sorgenpfennig rubs his short, fat hands, and his round eyes twinkle again, as he tells his little cluster of "Herren Gesellen" that there will be a feast, a sumptuous abendbrod, to inaugurate the commencement of candle-light. The "Licht Braten," as this entertainment is called, is one of the old customs of Hamburg now falling into disuse. It would be doing Herr Sorgenpfennig an eternal injustice did we pass over it in silence, more especially as he boasts of it as real "North German fare." Here we have it: raw herrings to begin with. Bah! I confess this does not sound well upon the first blush; but, then, a raw dried herring is somewhat different to one salted in a barrel. To cook it would be a sacrilege, say the Germans. And then the accompaniments! We have two dishes of wonderful little potatoes, baked in an oven, freshly peeled and shining; and in the centre of the table is a bowl of melted butter and mustard well mixed together. You dip your potato in the butter, and while you thus soften the deep-sea saltness of your herring, the rough flavour of the latter relishes and overcomes the unctuous dressing of your potato. I swear to you it is delicious!

But where is our "braten," the "roast," in fact? Oh, thou unhappy Peter! I see thee still, reeking over the glowing forge fire, cooking savoury sausages thou art forbidden to taste! I see thee still, struggling in vain to "bolt" the blazing morsel, rashly plucked (in the momentary absence of Sorgenpfennig), from the bubbling, hissing fat, and thrust into thy jaws. Those burning tears! those mad distortions of limb and feature! God pity thee, Peter, but it was not to be! Those savoury sausages are our "braten," and they smack wonderfully after the herrings. If there is one item in our repast to be deplored, it is the Hamburger beer, which, however, is as good as it can be, I suppose, for the money—something under an English penny a bottle. But here is wine; good, sound wine, not indeed from the Rhine, nor the Moselle, but red, sparkling, French vin ordinaire, at a mark—fourteen-pence the bottle.

Truly, Hamburg, thou art a painstaking, industrious, money-making city, with more available wealth among thy pitch and slime than other towns can boast of in their trimness and finery, but spendthrift, and debauched, and dissolute withal art thou!

Punch, du edler trank der Britten! Punch, thou noble drink of Britons—

the outburst of some exhilarated poet—should be inscribed upon thy double-turreted gate, good Hamburg! The odorous steam of rum and lemon contends in thine open streets with the fumes of tobacco; the union of these two perfumes make up thine atmosphere; while thy public walks are strewn with the unsmoked ends of cigars, thick as the shrivelled leaves in autumn.

Seriously, the Hamburger toils earnestly, and takes his pleasure with a proportionate amount of zeal. His enjoyments, like his labours, are of a strong and solid description. The workmen trundle kegle balls in long, wooden-built alleys; and down in deep beer cellars, snug and warm, do they cluster, fondling their pipes like favoured children; taking long gulps of well-made punch, or deeper draughts of Bairisches beer. If they talk, they do so vehemently, but they love better to sit and listen to some little troop of harfenisten—street harp-players—as they tone the waltzes of Lanner, or sing some chivalrous romance. Sometimes they form themselves into bands of choristers, and sing with open windows into the street, or play at billiards as if it were for life, or congregate in the dance-houses, and waltz by the hour without a pause. In all they are hearty, somewhat boisterous, but never wanting in good temper.

As marriage is out of the question with the workman in Hamburg, whether stranger or native—unless indeed the latter may have passed through the probationary course of travel and conscription, and be already on the verge of mastership—so also is honourable courtship. His low wages and dependent position form an impassable barrier to wedlock, and a married journeyman is almost unknown. By the law of his native city he must travel for two or three years, independently of the chances of conscription, and thus for a period at least he becomes a restless wanderer, without tie or home. No prudent maiden can listen to his addresses, and thus it is that Hamburg swarms with unfortunates; and this it is which gives them rights and immunities unknown in any other city.



CHAPTER V.

PLAYS AND PICCADILLOES.—"HAMLET" IN GERMAN.

It is Sunday again. Soberly and sedately do we pass our morning hours. We waken with the sweet music of bells in our ears; bells that whisper to us of devotion; bells that thrill us with a calm delight, and raise up in us thoughts of gentleness and charity.

There is no lack of churches; we see their tapering steeples and deep gable roofs rising above the general level in many places, and there is a Little Bethel down by the water's side on the Vorsetzen, for the sailors. There are two or three Little Pandemoniums in its immediate vicinity, or at least by that classical title are they designated by the Bethlemites over the way; but salt-water Jack and fresh-river Jack give them much simpler names, and like them a great deal better, more's the pity. We have heard the little jangling bells in the church pews, and they will not ring in tune, although they tell the deeds of charity; we have marched staidly home, and joined in Herr Sorgenpfennig's blessing over the midday meal;—Herr Sorgenpfennig delivers it with the presence and intonation of an Eastern patriarch, standing among his tribe;—and the delicacies of German cookery having fulfilled their purpose and disappeared, with a whispered grace and a bow of humbleness, we sidle out of the room, and leave the "Herr Meister" to his meditations and his punch. And so ends the service of the day.

The blond-headed Bavarian begins to hum the last Tafellied, and our quiet Dane smiles reservedly. "Whither, friends, shall we bend our steps?" No! by the eternal spirit of modesty, we will not visit the dance-houses to-day! Those vile shambles by the water-side, growing out of the slime and filth of the river, and creeping like a noxious, unwholesome weed, up the shaded hill, and by narrow ruts and gullies into the open country. No! Those half-draped, yet gaping doors, have no attractions for us; those whining notes of soulless music find no echo in our ears or hearts. There, in their hideous blandishments, the shameless sit, miserable in their tawdriness, their painted cheeks peeling in the hot sun, which they cannot shut out if they would. Throughout the long day the wearied minstrels pant over their greasy tubes of brass, or scrape their grimy instruments with horny fingers, praying for the deep night; and there, through the long day, does the echoing floor rebound with the beating of vigorous feet; for salt-water Jack is there, and fresh-river Jack is there, and while there is a copper pfennig in their pockets, or a flicker of morality in their hearts, doomed are they equally; for what can escape spoliation or wreck among such a crowd?

Yet from such commodities as these does the merchant spirit of the Senate of Hamburg draw huge profits; indeed, it is said that the whole expense of police and city, and what is worse, yet better, the tending of the sick, the feeding of the poor, and the succouring of the helpless and desolate, are alike defrayed from the produce of the city's vice; and let us add, the Senate's fostering care of it.

And if we wandered out beyond the walls to the right or to the left, what do we find? On the one hand, "Peter Hund's;" on the other "Unkraut's Pavilion;" mere dance-houses, after all, though for "the better sort." "Peter" has a tawdry hall, smeared with the escutcheons of all nations, where music and waltzing whirl through the dense air, hour after hour; and what is at least of equal consequence to him, Peter holds a tavern in the next room, where spirits, beer, or coffee are equally at the command of the drouthy or the luxuriant. And so also if we followed the road which passes through Stein Thor, away across the leafy fringing of trees and shrubs which ornament the city's outline; and still on through the shady avenues of youthful stems, when we come upon a great house with deep overhanging eaves, square-topped chimneys, and altogether with a Swiss air about it. There are idlers hanging about the door, for this is "Unkraut's," and the brisk air of musical instruments streams out of the open portal. Within all is motion and uproar. A large salle de danse occupies the greater part of the ground floor, the central portion of which is appropriated to the waltzers, while a broad slip on each side, beneath an overhanging gallery, running round the whole of the apartment, remains for those who drink, or take a temporary repose. Sometimes, however, the flood of waltzers pours in upon the side-tables, amid the clatter of chairs, the ringing of glass and china, and the laughter of the spectators. Gentlemen are not allowed to dance with their hats on; (where else, in Heaven's name, can they place them?) and must lay their heavy pipes and cigars aside, as smoking is permitted only in the gallery above. The company is of the "better sort" in the salle below; that is to say, that vice, shameless and unveiled, is not allowed to flaunt without a check; but there is taint and gangrene among all; feeble wills and failing hearts to bear up against the intoxicating stream of music, and giddy heads for thought or reason amid the whirl and swimming of the dance.

"Unkraut's" has, however, attractions apart from the ball-room. By a quiet stair at the end of the gallery, through muffled doors that close upon you as you enter, and shut out like walls the hum and hubbub below, we come upon an ill-shapen apartment, where hushed, absorbed men are seated at desks, as at a school, each with a huge frame dotted with numbers before him. A strange contrast to the scene without. There is a heavy quiet in the place, disturbed only by an occasional cough, a shuffling of feet, and the silvery ringing of little plates of glass. A monstrous game of Lotto is this. A mere child's play of gambling, requiring neither tact, wit, nor reasoning; a simple lottery, in fact, dependent for success upon the accidental marking (each player upon his own board or table) of the first five numbers that may be drawn. Now we hear a strange rattling of wooden pieces, shaken in a bag, and as each piece is drawn, a bustling man with an obstreperous voice, calls out the number; not in full, sonorous German, but in broad, uncouth Platt Deutsche (low German), and eager tongues respond from distant corners claiming the prize. A dull-headed game is this, fitted only for the most inveterate gamblers; but it yields money to the Stadt, and that is its recommendation.

As the day wears on, its attractions increase. The Elb Pavilion offers a rare treat; exquisite music, executed with vigour, delicacy, and precision. Moreover, its frequenters are decidedly of a respectable class. But we will not be moved; we have set our hearts upon witnessing a play of Shakespeare's, announced for this night at the Stadt Theatre, and that no less a one than "Hamlet, Prince of Denmark."

The Stadt Theatre in Hamburg enjoys a strange monopoly; for by the Senate's will it is declared that no other theatre shall exist within the city walls. Yet, curiously enough, a wonderful old woman, by some unaccountable freak, has the privilege, or hereditary right, of licensing or directing a theatrical establishment within the boundaries, and thus a second theatre contends for the favours of the public; and in order to define its position and state of existence, it is entitled simply Das Zweite Theatre (The Second Theatre). It is an especially favourite place of amusement with the Hamburgers, although they play an incomprehensible jumble of unconnected scenes, called "possen," adapted solely to display the peculiar talents of certain actors. One odd fellow there reaps showers of applause for no other exhibition of ability than that of looking intensely stupid, for he seldom utters a word; but assumes an appearance of unfathomable vacuity that is inimitable. There are still two theatres outside the city walls: the one, the Tivoli, devoted to farces and vaudevilles; the other consecrated to the portrayal of the deeply sentimental, and the fearfully tragic—with poison, dagger-blades, convulsions and heavy-stamping ever at command.

But our play! Here we are in the gallery of a splendid edifice, equal in extent to our Covent Garden Theatre at home, having come to this part of the house in anticipation of a feeble audience in preference to the parterre or pit. Note also, that here we pay eight schillinge only, while a place below would cost us twenty. But the house is crammed, for Shakespeare draws as well in Germany as in England, perhaps for the simple reason that in no other country are his works so well translated. We find ourselves in the midst of a dense cluster of earnest Danes, who say the most impressive things in the quietest way in the world. They are strongly interested in the coming performance, for "Hamlet the Dane" has taken deep hold upon the Danish affections; and in Elsinore, so great is the consideration entertained for this all but fabulous prince, that they will point you out the garden wherein his royal father suffered murder

—most foul, strange, and unnatural,

and the grave where the "gentle prince" himself lies buried. The play begins; with the deepest earnestness the audience listen, and, crowded as they are, preserve the utmost quiet. The glorious drama scene by scene unfolds itself, and passage by passage we recognise the beauties of our great poet. Herr Carr, starring it from Vienna, is no unworthy representative of the noble-hearted Dane, although unequal, we think, to the finer traits, and more delicate emotions of the character. The dresses are admirable, sometimes gorgeous, and the groupings most effective. The scenery alone is unsatisfactory; indecisive and colourless as it is, without depth or tone, it strikes you as the first effort in perspective of a feeble-handed amateur. As the play proceeds, the action grows upon us, and the rapt spectators resent with anger the least outcry or disturbance. The first scene with the players is omitted, but the concluding portion is a triumph; for as Hamlet, arriving at the climax of his sarcasm, and bursting for a moment into rage, flings the flute away, with the exclamation: "S'blood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe?" the whole theatre rings with the applause.

Presently, however, we are aware of a gap, a huge hiatus in the performance; a grave, and yet no grave, for the whole churchyard scene, with its quaint and exquisite philosophy, the rude wit of the gravediggers, and the pointed moralising of the prince, are all wanting—all swept away by the ruthless hand of the critic; skulls and bones, picks and mattocks, wit and drollery, diggers, waistcoats and all! Not even Yorick, with his "gibes" and "flashes of merriment"—not even he is spared. On the other hand, a portion of a scene is represented which, until lately, was always omitted on the English stage. It is that in which the guilty king, overcome by remorse, thus soliloquises:—

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven!

Hamlet, coming upon his murderous uncle in his prayers, exclaims:—

Now might I do it, pat, while he is praying; And now I'll do 't—and so he goes to heaven: And so am I revenged?

The omission or retention of this scene might well be a matter of dispute, for while it represents the guilty Claudius miserable and contrite, even in the height of his success, it also portrays the anticipated revenge of Hamlet in so fearful a light, that he stands there, not the human instrument of divine retribution, but with all the diabolical cravings of Satan himself. I leave this question to abler critics, and, in the meantime, our play is finished, amid shouts of delight and calls before the curtain. It is but half-past nine, yet this is a late hour for a German theatre, where they rarely perform more than one piece, and that seldom exceeding two hours in duration. Descending to the street, wrapped in the recollections of the gorgeous poem whose beauties still echo in our ears, we are vulgar enough to relish hot sausages and Bavarian beer.

An hour later we pace our half-lighted Johannis Strasse, seeking the portal of our house amid the gloom. Suddenly we are startled by the tramp of a heavy foot, and the clang and rattle of a steel weapon as it strikes upon the ground. A burly voice assails us: "Whither are you going?"

Is this Bernardo, wandered from the ramparts in search of the ghost of Hamlet's father?

Not so: it is but one of the night-watch, armed with an enormous halbert which might have done good service in the thirty years' war. The faithful nachtwachter strikes it upon the ground with the butt-end at regular intervals, so that sinful depredators may have timely notice of his approach. As it has a large hook at the back it is said to be admirably adapted for catching thieves by the leg, if its opportune clattering does not keep them out of its reach.

We render a good account of ourselves, and are duly escorted to our home.



CHAPTER VI.

THE GERMAN WORKMAN.

That workmen in England may have some clear knowledge of the ways and customs of a large number of their brethren on the Continent, I here intend to put down for their use a part of my own knowledge and experience.

The majority of trades in Germany are formed into guilds, or companies. At the head of each guild stands an officer chosen by the government, whatever it may be—for you may find a government of any sort in Germany, between an emperor and a senate—this officer being always a master, and a member of the guild. His title differs in almost every German state, but he is generally called Trade-master, or Deputy. Associated with him are two or three of the oldest employers; or, in some cases, workmen in the trade, under the titles of Eldermen, or Masters' Representatives. These three or four men govern the guild, and have under them, for the proper transaction of business, a secretary and a messenger. Such officers, however, do not represent their trade in the whole state or kingdom, but are chosen, in every large town, to conduct the multifarious business that may require attention within its limits.

Although all these guilds are, in their original constitution, formed on the same model, they differ materially in their internal arrangements. Much depends upon the ruling government of the state in which they are situated; for, while in despotic Prussia, what is there called Freedom of Trade is declared for all, in the "free" town of Hamburg everything is bound and locked up in small monopolies.

In some parts of Germany there are "close trades," which means to say that the number of masters in each is definitely fixed. This is so in Hamburg. For instance, among the goldsmiths, the number of new masters annually to be elected is three, being about sufficient to fill up the deficiencies occurring from death and other causes. I have heard of as many as five being elected in one year, and I have also heard it asserted that this was to be accounted for on the supposition that the aldermen had been "smeared in the hand," that is to say, bribed.

There are other trades locked up in a different way. There exist several of this kind in Nuremberg and thereabouts; as, the awl and punch-makers, lead-pencil makers, hand-bell makers, gold and silver wire-drawers, and others. They occupy a particular town or district, and they say, "Here we are. We possess these trades, and we mean to keep them to ourselves. We will teach no strangers our craft; we will confine it among our relatives and townsmen; and in order to prevent the knowledge of it from spreading any farther, we will allow our workmen to travel only within the limits of our town or land;" and so they keep their secrets close.

In other trades, the workmen are allowed to engage themselves only to a privileged employer. That is to say, they dare not execute a private order, but can receive employment from a master of the craft only. In Prussia, and some few other lands, each workman can work on his own account, and can offer his goods for sale in the public market unhindered, so long as they are the production of his own hands alone; but should he employ a journeyman, then he pays a tax to Government of about ten shillings annually, the tax increasing in proportion to the number of men he may employ.

There are also "endowed" and "unendowed" trades. An endowed guild is one the members of which pay a certain small sum monthly while in work, and thus form a fund for the relief of the sick and the assistance of the travelling members of the trade. There are few trades of the unendowed kind, for the workmen of such trades have to depend upon the generosity of their companions in the craft in the hour of need; and it is generally found more economical to pay a regular sum than to be called on at uncertain intervals for a donation; moreover, the respectability of the craft is better maintained.

While we talk of respectability, we may add that it was formerly the especial care of the heads of each guild, to see that no disreputable persons became members of the trade; and illegitimate children, and even the lawful offspring of shepherds, bailiffs, and town servants were carefully excluded. This practice exists no longer, except in some few insignificant places; but the law is still very general which says that no workman can become a master who has not fulfilled every regulation imposed by his guild; that is to say, he must have been apprenticed at the proper age to a properly-constituted master; must have regularly completed his period of apprenticeship, and have passed the appointed time in travel. The worst part of all these regulations is, that, as they vary in almost every state, the unfortunate wanderer has to conform to a new set of laws in every new land he enters.

One other regulation is almost universal. Each guild must have a place of meeting; not a sumptuous hall, but mere accommodation in a public-house. It is called the "Herberge," and answers, in many respects, to our "House of Call." This is the weary traveller's place of rest—he can claim a shelter here; indeed, in most cases, he dares sleep nowhere else. Here also the guild holds its quarterly meetings. By way of illustration, let us take the Goldsmith's Herberge in Hamburg; the "Stadt Bremen" is the sign of the house. In it, the goldsmiths use a large, rectangular apartment, furnished with a few rough tables and chairs, and a wooden bench running round its four walls. On the tables are arranged long clay pipes, and in the centre of each table is a small dish of what the uninitiated might take to be dried tea leaves. This is uncut tobacco, which the host, the father of the House of Call, is bound to provide. The secretary and messenger of the guild of goldsmiths are there, together with one or two of the "Altgesellen" (elder journeymen), who perform the active part of the duties of the guild. The minutes of the last meeting, and the incidents of the quarter—possibly, also, an abstract of the rules—having been read, and new officers, to supersede those who retire, having been balloted for, the business of the evening closes. Then commences a confusion of tongues; for here are congregated Russians, Hungarians, Danes, Hamburgers, Prussians, Austrians; possibly there may be found here a member of every state in the German Union. None are silent, and the dialect of each is distinct. Assiduously, in the pauses of his private conversation, every man smokes his long pipe, and drinks his beer or punch. Presently two female harp-players enter—sources of refreshment quite as popular in Hamburg as the punch. They strike up an infatuating waltz. The effect is wonderful. Two or three couples (men waltzing with men, of course) are immediately on their feet, scrambling, kicking, and scraping round the room; hugging each other in the most awkward manner. Chairs and tables are huddled into corners; for the mania has seized upon two-thirds of the company. The rest cannot forsake their beer, but congregate in the corners, and yell, and scream toasts and "Lebe-hoch!" till they are hoarse.

Two girls enter, with trifling articles of male attire for sale; stocks, pomatum, brushes, and beard-wax; but the said damsels are immediately pounced upon for partners. In the intervals of the music a grand tournament takes place; the weapons being clay-pipes, which are speedily shattered into a thousand pieces, and strewn about the room to facilitate dancing. Such a scene of shuffling, whirling, shouting, and pipe-crunching could scarcely be seen elsewhere.

We will take a German youth destined to become an artisan, and endeavour to follow him through the complication of conflicting usages of which he stands the ordeal. Hans is fourteen years of age, and has just left school with a decent education. Hans has his trade and master chosen for him; is taken before the heads of the guild, and his indenture duly signed and sealed in their presence, they themselves witnessing the document. His term of apprenticeship is probably four years, perhaps six; a premium is seldom given, and when it is, it shortens the period of apprenticeship. The indenture, together with a certificate of baptism, in some cases that of confirmation (which ceremony serves as an important epoch in Germany), and even a documentary proof of vaccination, are deposited in the coffers of the guild, and kept at the Herberge for future reference.

Obedience to elders and superiors is the one great duty inculcated in the minds of all Germans, and Hans is taught to look upon his master as a second father; to consider short commons as a regulation for his especial good, and to bear cuffing—if he should fall in the way of it—patiently. If he be an apprentice in Vienna, he may possibly breakfast upon a hunch of brown bread, and an unlimited supply of water; dine upon a thin soup and a block of tasteless, fresh-boiled beef; and sup upon a cold crust. He may fare better or worse; but, as a general rule, he will sleep in a vile hole, will look upon coffee and butter as undeniable luxuries, and know the weight of his master's hand.

Hans has one great source of pleasure. There is a state school, which he attends on Sundays, and where he is instructed in drawing and modelling. In his future travels he will find the advantage he has acquired over less educated mechanics in this necessary knowledge; and should he come to England, he will discover that his skill as a draughtsman will place him at once in a position superior to that of the chance-taught workmen about him. He completes his apprenticeship without attempting to run away. That is practically impossible; but he yearns, with all the ardour of a young heart, for the happy day when he may tramp out of his native town with his knapsack on his back, and the wide world before him.

We will suppose Hans out of his time, and declared a free journeyman by the guild. The law of his country now has it that he must travel—generally for three years, perhaps four or six—before he can take up the position of a master. He may work for a short period in his native town as a journeyman, but forth he must; nor is he in any way loth. One only contingency there is, which may serve to arrest him in his course,—he may be drawn as a conscript—and, possibly, forget in the next two or three years, as a soldier, all he has previously learned in four as a mechanic. But we suppose Hans to have escaped this peril, and to be on the eve of his departure.

When an English gentleman, or mechanic, or beggar, in these isles, has resolved upon making a journey, he has but to pack up his traps, whether it be in his portmanteau, his deal-box, or his pocket-handkerchief; to purchase his ticket at the railway or steam-packet station; and without asking or consulting with anybody about the matter, to take his seat in the vehicle, and off he goes. Not so Hans. He gives his master fourteen days' notice of his intention to wander; applies to the aldermen of his guild for copies of the various documents concerning himself in their possession; and obtains from his employer a written attestation of his past services. This document is called a "Kundschaft;" is written in set form, acknowledges his probity and industry, and is countersigned by the two aldermen. He is now in a condition to wait upon the "Herberges-Vater" (the landlord of the House of Call), and request his signature also. The Vater, seeing that Hans owes nothing to him or to any other townsman—and all creditors know that they have only to report their claims at the Herberge to obtain for them a strict attention—signs his paper, "all quit." Surely he may start forth now! Not so; the most important document is still wanting. He has, as yet, no passport or wander-book.

Hans goes to the police-bureau, and, as he is poor, has to wait a long while. If Hans were rich, or an artist, or a master's son, it is highly probable that ho would be able to obtain a passport—and the possession of a passport guarantees many advantages—but as Hans is simply a workman, a "wander-book" only is granted to him. This does indeed cost him less money, but it thrusts him into an unwelcome position, from which it is not easy to escape. He is placed under stricter rule, and, among other things, is forced, during his wandering, to sleep at his trade Herberge, which, from the very monopoly it thus enjoys, is about the worst place he could go to for a lodging.

The good magistrate of Perleberg—the frontier town of Prussia, as you enter from Mecklenburg—had the kindness to affix to my passport a document entitled, "Ordinance concerning the Wandering of Working-men." I will briefly translate its contents. The "Verordnung" commences with a preamble, to the effect that, notwithstanding the various things that have been done and undone with respect to the aforesaid journeymen, it still happens that numbers of them wander purposeless about the land, to the great burden of their particular trades and the public in general, and to the imminent danger of the common safety. Therefore, be it enacted, that "passports," that is to say, "passes," in which the distinct purpose of the journey is stated, such as a search for employment; or "wander-books," in which occupation by manual labour is the especial object, are to be granted to those natives of Prussia only who pursue a trade or art for the perfection of which travelling may be considered useful or necessary. To those only who are irreproachable in character, and perfectly healthy in body; this latter to be attested by a medical certificate. To those only who have not passed their thirtieth year, nor have travelled for the five previous years without intermission. To those only who possess a proper amount of clothing, including linen, as well as a sum of money not less than five dollars (about sixteen shillings) for travelling expenses. So much for natives. Foreigners must possess all the above-named requisites; must be provided with proper credentials from their home authorities, and may not have been more than four weeks without employment on their arrival at the frontier. Again, every wanderer must distinctly state in what particular town or city he intends to seek employment, and by what route he purposes to get there; and any deviation from the chosen road (which will be marked in the wander-book) will be visited by the punishment of expulsion from the country. A fixed number of days will be allotted to the wanderer in which to reach his destination, but should he overstep that period, a similar punishment awaits him; expulsion from the country always meaning that the offender shall retrace his steps, and quit the land by the way he had entered it. This is the substance of the "ordinance."

Hans is ready for the road. He has only now to take his farewell. A farewell among workmen is simply a drinking-bout, a parting glass taken overnight. Hans has many friends; these appoint a place of assemblage, and invite him thither. It is a point of honour among them that the "wandering boy" shall pay nothing. Imagine a large, half-lighted room; a crowded board of bearded faces. On the table steams a huge bowl of punch, which the chosen head of the party, perhaps Johann's late master, ladles into the tiny glasses. He proclaims the toast, "The Health of the Wanderer!" The little crowd are on their feet, and amid a pretty tinkling of glasses, an irregular shout arises, a small hurricane of voices, wishing him good speed.

What songs are sung, what healths are drunk, what heartfelt wishes are expressed! The German workmen are good friends to one another—men who are already away from friends and home, and whose tenderest recollections are awakened in the farewell expressed to a departing companion. Many tears are shed, many hearty presses of the hand are given, and not a few kisses impressed upon the cheek. Little tokens of affection are interchanged, and promises to write are made, but seldom kept. With this mingling and outpouring of full hearts, the stream of punch still flows through tiny glasses: but, since "Many a little makes a mickle," the farewell thus taken ends sometimes as a debauch.

Hans, in the morning, is perhaps a little the worse for last night's punch. He is attired in a clean white blouse, strapped round the waist; a neat travelling-cap; low, stout shoes; and, possibly, linen wrappers, instead of socks. The knapsack, strapped to his back, contains a sufficient change of linen, a coat artistically packed, which is to be worn in cities, and a few necessary tools; the whole stock weighing, perhaps, twenty or thirty pounds. On the sides of the knapsack are little pouches, containing brushes, blacking, and soap; and in his breast-pocket is stowed away a little flask of brandy-schnaps, to revive his drooping spirits on the road. A stout stick completes his equipment. A last adieu from the one friend of his heart, who will walk a few miles with him on the way—and so he is launched fairly on his journey.

Hans finds the road much harder, and his knapsack heavier than he had expected. Now he is drenched with rain, and can get no shelter; and, when he does, he will find straw an inconvenient substitute for a bed. At last he arrives at Berlin. He has picked up a companion on the road; and, as it frequently happens that several trades hold their meetings in the same house, they both are bound to the same Herberge. Through strange, half-lighted streets, along narrow edges of pavement, they proceed till they enter a court, or wynd, with no footpath at all, and they are in the Schuster Gasse, before the door of the Herberge. The comrade of Hans announces them as they pass the bar, and the next moment they are in the travellers' room, amid as motley a group as ever met within four walls.

Tumult and hubbub. An indescribable odour of tobacco, cummin (carraway), and potato-salad. A variety of hustled blouses. Sunburnt and haggard faces. Ragged beards and unkempt locks. A strong pipe hanging from every lip; beer, or kummil (a spirit prepared with cummin) at every hand. Wild snatches of song, and hurried bursts of dialogue. Some are all violence and uproar; some are half dead with sleep and fatigue, their arms sprawling about the tables. Such is the inside of a German trade traveller's room.

Hans and his companion hand over their papers to the "father" as a security, and their knapsacks to a sluttish-looking girl, who deposits them in a cupboard in the corner of the room, and locks the door upon them. Our travellers order a measure of Berliner Weiss Bier, to be in keeping with the rest, and long for the hour of sleep. At length, a stout young man enters, carrying a lighted lantern, and in a loud voice of authority summonses all to bed. And there is a scrambling and hustling among some of the travellers, a hasty guzzling of beer and spirits, and a few low murmurs at being disturbed, but none dare disobey.

A shambling troop of sixteen or eighteen, they quit the room, and enter a small paved yard, preceded by the young man with the lantern. There is a rough building resembling a stable, at the other end of the yard; and, in one corner, a steep ladder, with a handrail, which leads to a chamber above. They ascend, and enter a long, low loft, so completely crowded with rough bedsteads that there remains but a narrow alley between them, just sufficient to allow a single person to pass. Eight double beds, and the ceiling so low that the companion of Hans can scarcely stand upright with his hat on.

"New-comers this way," shouts the conductor.

"What's the matter, now?" inquires Hans of his comrade.

"Take off your coat," is the answer in a whisper; "undo the wristbands, and throw open the collar of your shirt."

"What for?"

"To be examined."

So they are examined; and, being pronounced sound, are allowed to sleep with the rest of the flock. In this loft, each bed with at least two occupants, and the door locked—without consideration for fire, accident, or sudden indisposition,—Hans passes the first night in Berlin.

But there is no work in Berlin, and Hans must pursue his journey. He waits for hours at the police-office, as play-goers wait at the door of a London theatre. By and by, he gets into the small bureau with a desperate rush. That business is settled, and he is off again. Time runs on; and, after a further tramp of good two hundred miles, Hans gets settled at last in the free city of Hamburg.

With the exception of a few factories, such as the silk-works at Chemnitz, in Saxony, and the colony of goldsmiths at Pfortzheim, in Wurtemburg, there are few extensive manufactories in Germany. Trade is split up into little masterships of from one to five or six men. This circumstance materially affects the relation between the employer and employed.

The master under whom Hans serves at Hamburg is a pleasant, affable gentleman; his apprentice Peter may be of a different opinion, but that is of no consequence. The master has spent the best years of his life in England and France; has learned to speak the languages of both countries with perfect facility, and is one of the lucky monopolists of his trade. He employs three workmen; one of them, who is possessed of that peculiar cast of countenance generally attributed to the children of Israel, has been demurred to by the Guild,—and why? Because a Jew is legally incapable of working in Hamburg. He is, however, allowed the usual privileges on attesting that he is not an Israelite.

Our master accommodates under his own roof one workman and his apprentice Peter. The others, whom he cannot lodge, are allowed each one mark-banco (fourteen pence) per week, to enable them to find a bed-chamber elsewhere. They suffer a pecuniary loss by the arrangement. Hans sleeps in a narrow box, built on the landing, into which no ray of heaven's light had ever penetrated. His bedding is a very simple affair. He is troubled with neither blankets nor sheets. An "under" and an "over" bed, the latter rather lighter than the former, and both supposed to be of feathers, form his bed and bedding. Hans is as well off as others, so he does not complain. As for the apprentice, Peter, it was known that he disappeared at a certain hour every evening; and from his appearance when he turned out in the morning, Hans was under the impression that he wildly shot himself into some deep and narrow hole, and slept the night through on his head.

And how does Hans fare under his master's roof? Considering the reminiscences of his apprenticeship, he relishes his cup of coffee in the morning; his tiny round roll of white bread; the heavy black rye-loaf, into which he is allowed to hew his way unchecked; and the beautiful Holstein butter. Not being accustomed to better food, it is possible that he enjoys the tasteless, fresh boiled beef, and the sodden baked meat, with no atom of fat, which form the staple food at dinner. Whether he can comprehend the soups which are sometimes placed before him,—now made of shredded lemons, now of strained apples, and occasionally of plain water, with a sprinkling of rice, is another matter; but the sourkraut and bacon, the boiled beef and raisins, and the baked veal and prunes, are certain to be looked upon by him as unusual luxuries.

The master presides at the table, and blesses the meat with the air of a father of his people. Although workmen in Germany are little better than old apprentices, this daily and familiar intercourse has the effect of breaking down the formal barriers which in England effectually divide the capitalist and the labourer. It creates a respectful familiarity, which raises the workman without lowering the master. The manners of both are thereby decidedly improved.

Hans gradually learns other trade customs. His comrade falls sick, and is taken to the free hospital, a little way out of the city. This hospital is clean and well kept, but fearfully crowded. The elder journeymen of the Guild are there too, and they comfort the sick man, and hand him the weekly stipend, half-a-crown, allowed out of the sick-fund. Hans contributes to this sick-fund two marks—two shillings and fourpence—a quarter. He does it willingly, but the master has power to deduct it from his wages in the name of the Guild. His poor sick friend dies; away from home and friends—a desolate being among strangers. But he is not, therefore, to be neglected. Every workman in the trade is called upon to contribute his share—about sevenpence—towards the expenses of the funeral; and the two senior, assisted by four other journeymen, in full evening dress, attend his funeral. His effects are then carefully packed up, and sent—a melancholy memorial of the dead—to his relations.

From the same fund which relieves the sick, are the "wandering boys" also assisted. But the "Geschenk" (gift), as it is called, is a mere trifle; sometimes but a few pence, and in a large city like Berlin it amounts to but twenty silver groschen—little more than two shillings. It is not considered disgraceful to accept this donation; as all, when in work, contribute towards the fund from which it is supplied.

And what is the amount of wages that German workmen receive? In Hamburg wages vary from five to eight marks per week, that is, from seven shillings to ten and sixpence, paid monthly. In Leipsic they are paid fortnightly, and average about ten shillings per week. In Berlin wages are paid by the calendar month, and average twenty-four dollars (a dollar is rather more than three shillings), for that period; so that a workman may be said to earn about eighteen shillings a week, but is dependent on his own resources for food and lodging. In Vienna the same regulation exists, and wages range from five to eight guldens—ten to sixteen shillings per week—paid weekly, as in England. But a workman in Vienna may be respectably lodged, lighted, and washed for at the rate of half-a-crown a week. In Berlin and Vienna married journeymen are to be met with, but not in great numbers, and in smaller towns they may almost be said to be unknown. Dr. Korth, in his address to his young friends, the "travelling boys," on this subject, emphatically says—"Avoid, in God's name, all attachments to womankind, more especially to those of whom your hearts would say, 'These could I love.'" And then the quaint old gentleman proceeds to say a number of ungallant things, which are not worth translating.

No! the German workman is taught to hold himself free, that he may carry out the law of his land to the letter; that he may return from his travels at the appointed time "a wiser and a better man;" that he may show proofs of his acquired skill in his trade, and thereupon claim the master's right and position. He is then free to marry, and is looked upon as an "eligible party." But how seldom does all this come to pass, may the thousands who swarm in London and Paris; may the German colonies which dot the American States, sufficiently tell. Many linger in large cities till they feel that to return to the little native village, and its old, poor, plodding ways, would be little better than burial alive; and some return, wasted with foreign vice and purchased adversity, premature old men, to die upon the threshold of their early homes.

One more question—what are their amusements? It would be a long story to tell, but certainly home-reading is not a prominent enjoyment among them. German governments, as a rule, take care that the people's amusements shall not be interfered with. The workmen throng in dance-houses, beer-cellars, cafes, and theatres, which are all liveliest and most attractive on a Sunday; and, as they are tolerably cheap, they are generally a successful lure from deep thinking or study. Besides, the German workman has no home. If he stay there at all in holiday hours, it is to draw, or model, or sing romances to the strumming of his guitar.



CHAPTER VII.

HAMBURG TO LUBECK.

The bleak, icy winter of North Germany is past. We have trodden its accumulated snows as they lay in crisp heaps in the streets of Hamburg; and have watched the muffled crowd upon the frozen Alster, darting and reeling, skating, sliding, and sleighing upon its opaque and motionless surface. We have alternately loved and execrated the massive German oven, which warmed us indeed, but never showed us a cheerful face. We have sipped our coffee or our punch in the beautiful winter garden of Tivoli, under the shade of lemon-trees, with fragrant flowers and shrubs around us; and finally, have looked upon the ice-bound Elbe with its black vessels, slippery masts, and rigid cordage, and seen the Hanoverian milk lasses skimming its dun expanse laden with their precious burdens. We have got over the slop and drizzle, and half-thawed slush, too; and the boisterous March wind dashes among the houses; and what is better than all, the fresh mornings are growing brighter and longer with every returning sun.

Away, then, out of the old city, alone on the flat, sandy road that lies between Hamburg and Berlin. Here we are, with hope before us, resolution spurring us on, and a twenty-eight pound knapsack on our backs. Tighten the straps, my friend, and you will walk easier with your load.

My journey as a workman on the tramp from Hamburg to Berlin I propose to tell, as simply as I can. I have no great adventures to describe, but I desire to illustrate some part of what has already been said about the workmen in Germany, and I can do this best by relating, just as it was, a small part of my own road experience, neither more nor less wonderful than the experience which is every day common to thousands of Germans.

I was very poor when I set out from Hamburg in the month of March, with my knapsack strapped to my back, my stick in my hand, and my bottle of strong comfort slung about my neck after the manner of a locket. I was not poor in my own conceit, for I had in my fob—the safest pocket for so large a sum of money—two gold ducats and some Prussian dollars: English money, thirty-five shillings. I thought I was a proper fellow with that quantity of ready cash upon my person, and a six weeks' beard on my chin.

Many adieus had been spoken in Hamburg at our last night's revel, but a Danish friend was up betimes to see me out of town. At length he also bade the wanderer farewell, and for the comfort of us both my locket having passed from hand to hand, he left me to tramp on alone, over the dull, flat, sandy road. There was scarcely a tree to be seen, and the sky looked like a heavy sheet of lead, but I stepped out boldly and made steady progress. The road got to be worse; I came among deep ruts and treacherous sloughs, and the fields on each side of the road were flooded. In some parts the road was a sand swamp, and the walk became converted into a gymnastic exercise; a leaping about towards what seemed the hard and knobby places that appeared among the mud. This exercise soon made me conscious of the knapsack, to which I was then not thoroughly accustomed. It was not so much the weight that I felt, but the tightness of the belt across the chest, which caused pain and impediment of breathing. Custom, however, caused the knapsack to become even an aid to me in walking.

A sturdy young fellow who did not object to mud was pushing his way recklessly behind me. I was soon overtaken, we exchanged kind greetings, and jogged on together, shoulder to shoulder. He had been upon his travels; had been in Denmark for two years, and had left Copenhagen to return to his native village, that lay then only eight or ten miles before us. What was his reason for returning? He was required to perform military service, and for the next two years at least—or for a longer time, should war break out—was doomed to be a soldier. He did not think the doom particularly hard, and we jogged on together in a cheerful mood until his knowledge of the ground became distressingly familiar, and he illustrated portions of the scenery with tales of robbery and murder. The scenery of the road became at every turn more picturesque. Instead of passing between swampy fields, it ran along a hollow, and the ground was on each side broken into deep holes with rugged edges; black leafless bushes stood out from the grey and yellow sand, while farther away in the background, against the leaden sky, there was a sombre fringe of thickly planted fir-trees. The daylight, dim at noon, had become dimmer as evening drew near; the grey sky darkened, and the tales of robbery and murder made my thoughts anything but cheerful. As the hills grew higher on each side of us, it occurred to us both that here was a fine place for a murder, and I let my companion go before, handling my stick at the same time as one ready to strike instantly if any injury were offered. I was just demonstrative enough to frighten my companion. We were a mere couple of rabbits. Each of us in his innocence feared that the other might be a guilty monster, and so we were both glad enough to get out of the narrow pass. On the other side of the glen the road widened, and my companion paused at the head of a little path that led down to a deeper corner of the hollow, and across the fields. That was his way home. He had but a mile to go, and was already anticipating all the kisses of his household. He wished me a prosperous journey; I wished him a happy welcome in his village; and we shook hands like two young men who owed amends to one another.

He had told me before we parted that there were two houses of entertainment not far in advance. Already I saw the red-tiled roof of one, that looked like a respectable farm-house. From the door of that house, however, I was turned away; and as the darkness of the evening was changing into night, I ran as fast as I was able to the next place of shelter. By the pump, the horse-trough, and the dirty pool I knew that there was entertainment there for man and horse. I therefore raised the wooden latch, and in a modest tone made my request for a bed. A vixenish landlady from the midst of a group of screaming children cried to me, "You can't have a bed, you can have straw." That would do quite as well, I said.

I sat down at a table in a corner of the large room, called for a glass of beer, produced some bread and sausage that I had brought with me from Hamburg, and made a comfortable supper. There was a large wood fire blazing on the ample hearth, but the landlord and his family engrossed its whole vicinity. The house contained no other sitting-room and no other sleeping accommodation than the one family bedroom and the barn.

While I was at supper there came in other wandering boys like myself. I had escaped the rain, but they had not; they came in dripping: a stout man, and a tall, lank stripling. The youth wore a white blouse and hat covered with oil-skin; his trousers were tucked halfway up his legs, and he had mud up to his ankles. We soon exchanged our scraps of information about one another. The stout man was a baker from Lubeck on the way to Hamburg; the stripling, probably not yet out of his teens, was part brazier, part coppersmith, part tinman; had been three weeks on his travels, and had come, like myself, from Hamburg since morning. He was very poor. He did not tell us that; but he ordered nothing to eat or drink, and except the draught of comfort that he got out of my bottle, the poor fellow went supperless to bed. Not altogether supperless though, for he had some smoke. We made a snug little party in the corner, and talked, smoked, and comforted ourselves, after the children had been put to bed, and while the landlord, landlady, and an old grandfather told stories to each other in Low German by the fire. At nine o'clock the landlord lighted his lantern, and told us bluffly that we might go to bed. We therefore, having handed him our papers—passports and wander-books—for his security and for our own, followed into the barn. That was a place large enough to hold straw for a regiment of soldiers. It was a continuation of the dwelling-house, sheltered under the same roof. We mounted three rude ladders, and so got from floor to floor into the loft. Having guided us safely thither, he quitted us at once with a "good night;" taking his lantern with him, and leaving us to make our beds in the thick darkness as we could. The straw was not straw: it was short-cut hay, old enough to have lost all scent of hay, and to have acquired some other scents less pleasing to the nose; hay, trodden, pressed, and matted down, without a vestige in it of its ancient elasticity. There was nothing in it to remind us of a summer tumble on the hay-cock. The barn roof was open, and the March night wind whistled over us. I took off my boots to ease my swollen feet; took my coat off that I might spread it over my chest as a counterpane; and struggled in vain to work a hole for my feet into the hard knotted bank of hay. So I spent the night, just so much not asleep that I was always conscious, dimly, of the snoring of the baker, and awoke sometimes to wonder what the landlord's cock had supped upon, for it was continually crowing in its sleep, on the barn-floor below. When morning broke we rose and had a brisk wash at the pump, scraped the mud from our boots, and breakfasted. The baker and I had plain dry bread and hot coffee. The tinman breakfasted on milk. He said it was better—poor fellow! he knew it was cheaper. By seven o'clock we were all afoot again, the baker journeying to Hamburg, the tinman and I road-companions to Lubeck.

At noon, after a five hours' walk, a pleasant roadside inn with a deep gable roof and snug curtains behind its lattice windows, tempted me to rest and dine. "We shall get a good dinner here," I said; "let us go in." The tinman would hear of no such thing. "We must get on to Lubeck," he replied. "Two more hours of steady walking and we shall be there." Poor youth! At Lubeck he could demand a dinner at his herberge, and he had no chance of any other. So we trudged on till the tall turrets and steeples of Lubeck rose on the horizon. The tinman desired to know what my intentions were. Was I going straight on to Berlin without working? Should I seek work at Lubeck? If not, of course I would take the viaticum. "I thought not," I told him. "Ah, then," he said, "you have some money." The viaticum is the tramp-money that may be claimed from his guild by the travelling workman. Germans, like other people, like to take pills gilded, and so they cloak the awkward incident of poverty under a Latin name.

Lubeck being in sight we sat down upon a grassy bank to make our toilet. A tramp's knapsack always has little pouches at the side for soap, brushes, and blacking. We were not so near to the tall steeples as we thought, and it took us a good hour and a half before we reached the city gates. The approaches are through pretty avenues of young trees and ornamental flower-plots. The town entrance at which we arrived was simply a double iron gate, like a park gate in England. As we were about to pass in, the sentinel beckoned and pointed us towards a little whitened watchbox, at which we stopped to hand our papers through a pigeon-hole. In a few minutes the police officer came out, handed to me my passport with great politeness, and in a sharp voice bade the tinman follow him. Such is the difference between a passport and a wander-book. I, owner of a passport, might go whither I would: tinman, carrying a wander-book, was marched off by the police to his appointed house of call. I took full advantage of my liberty, and, as became a weary young man with two gold ducats in his fob, went to recruit my strength with the best dinner I could get. Having taken off my knapsack and my blouse, I soon, therefore, was indulging in a lounge upon the sofa of one of the best hotels in the sleepy and old-fashioned free city of Lubeck.



CHAPTER VIII.

LUBECK TO BERLIN.

By right of churches full of relics, antique buildings, and places curiously named, Lubeck is, no doubt, a jewel of a town to antiquarians. Its streets are badly paved, but infinitely cleaner than the streets of Hamburg. I did not much wonder at that, for I saw no people out of doors to make them dirty, when I exposed myself to notice from within doors as a solitary pedestrian, upon my way to take a letter to a goldsmith in the market place. The market place is a kind of exchange; a square building with an open court in the centre, around which there is a covered way roofed quaintly with carved timbers. In this building the mechanical trades of Lubeck are collected, each trade occupying a space exclusively its own under the colonnade. Here, all the tradesmen are compelled to work, but are not permitted to reside. Each master has his tiny shop-front with a trifling show of goods exposed in it, and his small workshop behind, in which, at most, two or three men can be employed. In some odd little nooks the doors of these boxes are so arranged, that two masters cannot go out of adjoining premises at the same time without collision.

Though my friend in Lubeck was a stranger, as a brother jeweller he gave me friendly welcome. Having inquired into my resources, he said, "You must take the viaticum."—"It is like begging," I answered.—"Nonsense," he replied; "you pay for it when you are in work, and have a right to it when travelling."—"But I might find employment, on inquiry."—"Do not be alarmed, my friend; there is not a job to be done in the whole city." I was forced, therefore, by my friend's good-natured earnestness, to make the usual demand throughout the little group of goldsmiths, and having thus satisfied the form, I was conducted to our Guild alderman and treasurer. A little quiet conversation passed between them, and the cash-box was then emptied out into my hand; it contained twenty-eight Hamburg shillings, equal to two shillings in English money.

I returned to my hotel and slept in a good bed that night. The morning broke heavily, and promised a day's rain. Through the lowering weather and the dismal streets I went to the police office to get my passport vised for Schwerin in Mecklenburg. Most dismal streets! The Lubeckers were complaining of loss of trade, and yearned for a railway from Lubeck to Hamburg. But the line would run through a corner of Holstein, and no such thing would be tolerated by the Duke. The Lubeckers wanted the Russian traffic to come through their town and on to Hamburg by rail. The Duke of Holstein wished to bring it through his little port of Kiel upon the Baltic.

Too poor to loiter on the road, having got my passport vised, I again strapped the knapsack to my back, and set out through the long avenues of trees over the long, wet road, through bitter wind and driving rain. Soaked with rain, and shivering with cold, I entered the village of Schoneberg at two o'clock, just after the rain had ceased, as deplorable a figure as a man commonly presents when all the vigour has been washed out of his face, and his clothes hang limp and damp about his body. Wearied to death, I halted at the door of an inn, but was told inhospitably—miserable tramp as I seemed, and was—that "I could go to the next house." At the next house they again refused me, already humbled, and advised me to go to The Tall Grenadier. That is a house of call for masons. I went to it, and was received there hospitably. My knapsack being waterproof, I could put on dry clothes, and hang my wet garments round the stove, while the uproarious masons—terrible men for beer and music—comforted me with unending joviality. They got into their hands a book of German songs that dropped out of my knapsack, and having appointed a reader, set him upon the table to declaim them. Presently, another jolly mason cried out over a drinking song—declaimed among the others in a loud monotonous bawl—"I know that song;" and having hemmed and tuned his voice a little, broke out into music with tremendous power. The example warmed the others; they began to look out songs with choruses, and so continued singing to the praise of wine and beauty out of my book, until they were warned home by the host. I climbed a ladder to my bedroom, and slept well. The Grenadier was not an expensive hotel, for in the morning when I paid my bill for bed and breakfast, I found that the accommodation cost me fourpence-halfpenny.

Since it is my desire not to fatigue the reader of this uneventful narrative, but simply to illustrate by a few notes drawn from my own experience the life of a German workman on the tramp, I shall now pass over a portion of the road between Hamburg and Berlin in silence. My way lay through Schwerin; from Schoneberg to Schwerin is twenty-six English miles, and we find it a long way. In reckoning distances, the Germans count by "stunden"—i.e. hours—and two "stunden" make one German mile. From experience, I should say that five miles English were about equal to one mile German; but they vary considerably. Having spent a night in the exceedingly neat city of Schwerin beside its pleasant waters, and under the protection of the cannon in the antiquated castle overhead, I set out for a walk of twenty miles onward to Ludwigslust. The road was a pleasant one, firm and dry, with trim grass edgings and sylvan seats on either side. The country itself was flat and dull, enlivened only now and then by a fir plantation or a pretty village. Brother tramps passed me from time to time with a cheerful salutation, and at three o'clock I passed within the new brick walls of Ludwigslust; a town dignified as a pleasure seat with a military garrison, a ducal palace, and an English park.

The inn to which I went in Ludwigslust, was the house of call for carpenters. The carpenters were there assembled in great force, laughing, smoking, and enjoying their red wine, which may have come from France, for Mecklenburg is no wine country. It was the quarter-day and pay-day of the carpenters, who were about to celebrate the date as usual with a supper. I went to sit down in the small travellers' room, and was assailed instantly by the whole army of joiners, some with bleared eyes; with flushed faces under caps of every shape and colour; and a flexible pipe hanging from every mouth—Who was I?—What was I?—Whence did I come?—Where was I born? and whither was I going? etc., etc. When they had found out all about me and confirmed their knowledge by examination of my passport, which one dull dog persisted in regarding as a book of ballads, out of which he sang, I began to ask concerning food. "Nothing warm in the house," said the housefather, a carpenter himself. "There will be a grand supper at six o'clock, and everything and everybody is wanted in the preparation of it. Make yourself easy for the present with brown bread and dripping, and a glass of beer, and then you can make your dinner with us when we sup." That suited me well enough.

The carpenters flowed out into the street, to take a stroll and get their appetites, leaving behind them one besotted man, who propped himself against the oven, and there gave himself a lecture on the blessings of equanimity under all circumstances of distress.

"Do you sleep here to-night?" inquired the host. Certainly, I desired to do so. "Then you must go to the police bureau for a permission."—"But you have my passport; is not that sufficient?"—"Not in Ludwigslust; your passport must be held by the police, and they will give you in exchange for it a ticket, which I must hold, or else I dare not let you have a lodging." I went to the police office at once; through the ill-paved street into the middle of the town. I went by a large gravelled square, which serves as a riding ground for the cavalry in the adjoining barracks; and a long broad street of no great beauty, ending in a flight of steps, led me then to the police office, and would have led me also, had that been my destination, to the ducal palace. The palace fronts to a paved square; it is a massive, noble edifice of stone, having before it a fine cascade with a treble fall. To the left, across a green meadow, I observed the church—the only church—a simple whitewashed building with a colonnaded front. At the foot of the low flight of steps was the police office, in which I found one man, who civilly copied my passport into a book, put it aside, and gave me a ticket of permission to remain one night in Ludwigslust. I was desired to call for my passport before leaving in the morning.

At seven o'clock there was no sign of supper. At eight o'clock the cloth was spread in a long, low lumber-room at the back of the inn, and the assembled carpenters took their seats before the board, or rather boards supported upon tressels. I took my place and waited hungrily. Very soon there was a great steam over the whole table sent up from huge tureens of boiled potatoes; smaller dishes of preserved prunes, boiled also, occupied the intervals. A bottle of red wine was placed for every two men. We then began our meal with soup; thin, sorry stuff. Then came the chief dishes, baked veal and baked pig's head. The prunes were to be eaten with the veal, which meat, having been first boiled to make the soup, and then baked in a deep dish in a close oven to bring out some of the faded flavour, was a sodden mass, and the whole meal was removed a very long way from the roast fillet of veal and pickled pork known to an Englishman. Our pig's head was, however, capital,—no soup had been made out of that. The carpenters, with assiduous kindness, heaped choice bits upon my plate, and as I had not dined, I supped with energy. The drunken man who had fallen asleep by the stove sat by my side with greedy looks, eating nothing, for he had not paid his share; he was a man who drank away his gains, and he received no pity.

Then after supper there came toasts. The president was on his legs, all glasses were filled; men ready. "Long live the Guild of carpenters! Vivat h—o!" The ho! was a howl; the glasses clashed. "Long live all carpenters! Vivat ho—o!" At ten o'clock there was a bustle and confusion at the door, and a long string of lads marched, two and two, cap in hand, into the room. These were all the carpenters' apprentices in Ludwigslust. Every quarterly night the hospitable carpenters have them in after supper to be regaled with beer and cordials, and initiated into the mysteries of jollity that are connected with the existence of a master carpenter. "Long live all carpenters' apprentices! Vivat ho—o—o!" The apprentices having revelled in as much beer and spirits as could be got through, shouting included, in a quarter of an hour, formed double line again, and marched out under a fire of lusty cheers into the street. Some jolly carpenters still lingered in the supper room, smoking or singing choruses, or making partners of each other for mad waltzes round the table to the music of their tongues.

Longing for bed, I was obliged to wait until the landlord was at leisure to attend to me. After I rose next morning, I waited for three hours impatiently enough until the sleepy host had risen; for until I had received my ticket back from him I was unable to get my passport and go on. At length, however, I got out of the brick walls of Ludwigslust, and marched forward under a clear sky on the way to Perleberg, my next stage, distant about fifteen English miles.

Having passed through two dirty, ill-paved towns, and being in some uncertainty about the road, I asked my way of a short, red-faced man who, being himself bound for the frontier station, favoured me so far with his company. He was a post-boy whose vocation was destroyed, but who was nevertheless blessed with philosophy enough to recognise the merits of the railway system, and to point out the posts marking the line between Berlin and Hamburg, with the comment that "the world must move." It seemed to be enough for him that he lived in the recollection of the people on his old road-side, and that he could stop with me outside a toll-gate, the first I had seen in Germany, sure of the production of a bottle for a social dram, in which I cordially joined. Then presently we came to a small newly-built village, the Prussian military station. A sentinel standing silent and alone by his sentry box striped with the Prussian colours, black and white, marked where the road crossed the Prussian frontier. We passed unchallenged, and found dinner upon the territory of the Black Eagle, in a very modest house of entertainment.

Travelling alone onward to Perleberg, I stopped once more for refreshment at a melancholy, dirty place, having one common room, of which the chairs and tables contained as much heavy timber as would build a house. I wanted an hour's rest, for my knapsack had become a burden to me, and the handles of the few tools I was obliged to carry dug themselves relentlessly into my back. "White or brown beer?" asked the attendant. Dolt that I was to answer Brown! They brought me a vile treacley compound that I could not drink; whereas the Berlin white beer is a famous effervescing liquor; so good, says a Berliner, that you cannot distinguish it from champagne if you drink it rapidly with closed eyes, and at the same time press your nose between your fingers. In the evening I got to Perleberg, and walking wearily up the old, irregular High Street, established myself at the Londoner Schenke—the London Tavern. I found the parlour pleasant and almost private, the hostess quiet and lady-like. While she was getting coffee ready for me, I paid my call of duty upon the police; for though my passport had been vised to Berlin in half a dozen places, the law required that I should not sleep in a new kingdom without first announcing my arrival.

At the upper end of the market place I found a red brick building with a gloomy door, opening upon a broad stone staircase, by which I mounted to the magistrate's room. That was a lofty hall, badly lighted by two little windows, and scantily furnished with a few seats. Behind a railing sat the magistrate in a velvet skull-cap and black robe; a short fat man with a satisfied face, but unsatisfied and restless eyes. Two armed soldiers shared with him the space beyond the rail. Two townsmen, hat in hand, were patiently waiting for their passes. Having mentioned my business, I was told that I might wait; standing, of course. The heavy quiet of the room was broken presently by the entrance of two young workmen in clean blouses, bound upon an errand like my own, who hovered in a tremulous condition near the doorway.

The magistrate of Perleberg, after awhile, looked at my passport, and asked "Have you the requisite amount of travelling money to show?" I had not expected such a question, but the two gold ducats were still in my fob, and I produced them with the air of a fine gentleman. One of the soldiers took them in his hand, examined them and passed them to his comrade, who passed them to the townspeople. "They are good," said the soldier, as he put them back into my hand.—"Is that enough?" I asked, as though there had been thousands of such things about other parts of my person, for I saw that I had made an impression. "That will do," said the magistrate, "you may sit down." O miserable homage before wealth! They would not keep me standing.

It had grown dark, and a lighted candle had been placed upon the desk of the chief magistrate, a most diligent man in his office, who, seeing no description of my person in the passport, set to work with the zest of an artist upon the depiction of my features. Examining each feature minutely with a candle, he put down the results of his researches, and then finally read off his work to me with this note at the bottom—"The little finger of his left hand is crooked."