THE OLD PROTESTANT CHURCH.Theold Protestant Church, at the lower extremity of Langen-Schwalbach, has not been preached in for about three years; and being locked up, I had to call for admission at a house in the centre of the town. The man was not at home, but his wife (very busily employed in dressing, against its will, a squalling infant) pointed to the key, which I gravely took from a nail over her head. This venerable building stands, or rather totters, on a small eminence close to the road—long rents in its walls, and the ruinous, decayed state of the mortar, sufficiently denoting its great antiquity. The roof and spire are still covered with slates, which seem fluttering as if about to take their departure. The churchyard continues in the valley to be the only Christian receptacle for the dead; and within its narrow limits, Catholics, Lutherans, and Calvinists end their worldly differences by soundly sleeping together, side by side. Here and there a tree is seen standing at the head of a Protestant’s grave; but though the twig was exclusively planted there, yet its branches, like knowledge, have gradually extended themselves, until they now wave and droop alike over those who, thus joined in death, had, nevertheless, lived in paltry opposition to each other. The rank grass also grows with equal luxuriance over all, as if the turf, like the trees, was anxious to level all human animosities, and to become the winding-sheet or covering of Christian fraternities which ought never to have disputed.In various parts of the cemetery I observed several worn-out, wooden, triangular monuments on the totter; while others were lying prostrate on the grass—the “hic jacet” being exactly as applicable to each of themselves as to that departed being, whose life and death they had vainly presumed to commemorate. Although the inscriptions recorded by these frail historians were scarcely legible, yet roses and annual flowers, blooming on the grave, plainly showed that there was still in existence some friendly hand, some foot, some heart, that moved with kindly recollection towards the dead. Upon several recent graves of children there were placed, instead of tombstones, the wreaths of artificial flowers, which, during their funeral, had either rested upon the coffin, or had been carried in the hands of parents and friends. The sun and rain—the wind and storm—had blanched the artificial bloom from the red roses, and, of course, had sullied the purity of the white ones; yet this worthless finery, lying upon the newly-moved earth, had probably witnessed unaffected feelings, to which the cold, white marble monument is often a stranger. The little heap of perishable wreaths, so lightly piled one upon the other, was the act, the tribute, the effusion of the moment; it was all the mother had had to record her feelings; it was what she had left behind her, as she tore herself away; and though it could not, I own, be compared to a monument sculptured by an artist, yet, resting above the coffin, it had one intrinsic value, at least—it had been left there by a friend!At one corner of the churchyard, there was a grave which was only just completed. The living labourer had retired from it; the dead tenant had not yet arrived; but the moment I looked into it, I could not help feeling how any one of our body-snatchers would have rubbed his rough hands, and what rude raptures he would have enjoyed, at observing that the lid of the coffin would be deposited scarcely a foot and a half below the sod. However, in the little duchy of Nassau, human corpses have not yet become coin current in the realm; and whatever may be a man’s troubles during his life, at Langen-Schwalbach he may truly say he will, at least, find rest in the grave.I know it is very wrong—I know that one is always blamed for bringing before the mind of wealthy people any truth which is at all disagreeable to them; yet on the brink of this grave I could not help feeling how very much one ought to detest the polite Paris and London fashion of smartening up us old people with the teeth and hair of the dead? It always seems to me so unfair, for us who havehadour day—who have ourselvesbeenyoung—to attempt, when we grow old, to deprive the rising generation of the advantage of that contrast which so naturally enhances their beauties. The spring of life, to be justly appreciated and admired, requires to be compared with the snow and storms of winter, and if by chicanery you hide the latter, the sunshine of the former loses a great portion of its beauty. In naked, savage life, there exists no picture on which I have so repeatedly gazed with calm pleasure, as that of the daughter supporting the trembling, dilapidated fabric of the being to whom she owes her birth; indeed, it is as impossible for man to withhold the respect and pity which is due to age whenever it be seen labouring under its real infirmities, as it is for him to contain his admiration of the natural loveliness of youth. The parent and child, thus contrasted, render to each other services of which both appear to be insensible; for the mother does not seem aware how the shattered outlines of her faded frame heighten the robust, blooming beauties of her child, who, in her turn, seems equally unconscious how beautifully and eloquently her figure explains and pleads for the helpless decrepitude of age! In the Babel confusion of our fashionable world, this beautifully arranged contrast of nature, the effect of which no one who has ever seen it can forget, does not exist. Before the hair has grown really grey—before time has imparted to it even its autumnal tint, it is artfully replaced by dark flowing locks, obtained by every revolting contrivance. The grave itself is attacked—our living dowagers of the present day do not hesitate to borrow their youthful ornaments even from the dead—and to such a horrid extreme has fashion encouraged this unnatural propensity, that even the carcase of the soldier, who has fallen in a foreign land, and who,“—————leaving in battle no blot on his name,Looks proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame,”has not been respected!One would think that the ribands and honours on his breast, flapping in the wind, would have scared even the vulture from such prey; but no! the orders which the London dentist has received must, he pleads, be punctually executed; and it is a revolting fact, but too well known to “the trade,” that many, and many, and many a set of teeth which bit the dust of Waterloo, by an untimely resurrection, appeared again on earth, smiling lasciviously at Almack’s ball! So much for what is termedfashion.After rambling about the churchyard for some minutes, occasionally spelling at an inscription, and sometimes looking at (not picking) a sepulchral flower, I walked to the church-door, and turning round its old-fashioned key, which ever since I had received it had been dangling in my hand, the lock started back, and then, as if I had said “Open Sesame!” the door opened.On looking before me, my first impression was that my head was swimming! for the old gallery, hanging like the gardens of Babylon, seemed to be writhing; the four-and-twenty pews were leaning sideways; the aisle, or approach to the altar, covered with heaps of rubbish, was an undulating line, and an immense sepulchral flag-stone had actually been lifted up at one side, as if the corpse, finding the church deserted, had resolutely burst from his grave, and had wrenched himself once again into daylight. The pulpit was out of its perpendicular; some pictures, loosely hanging against the wall, had turned away their faces; and a couple of planks were resting diagonally against the altar, as if they had fallen from the roof. I really rubbed my eyes, fancying that they were disordered; however, the confusion I witnessed was real, and as nearly as possible as I have described it. Still, however, there was no dampness in the church, and it was, I thought, a remarkable proof of the dryness of the light mountain air of Langen-Schwalbach, that the sepulchral wreaths of artificial flowers which were hanging around on the walls were as starched and stiff as on the day they were placed there.A piece of dingy black cloth, with narrow white fringe, was the only ornament to the pulpit, from which both book and minister had so long departed. The thing was altogether on the totter; yet when I reflected what little harm it had done in the world, and how much good, I could not help acknowledging that respect was justly due to its old age, and that, even by the stranger, it ought to be regarded with sentiments of veneration. In gazing at monuments of antiquity, one of the most natural pleasures which the mind enjoys is by them fancifully transported to the scenes which they so clearly commemorate. The Roman amphitheatre becomes filled with gladiators and spectators;—the streets of Pompeii are seen again thronged with people;—the Grecian temple is ornamented with the votive offerings of heroes and of senators;—even the putrid marsh of Marathon teems with noble recollections;—while at home, on the battlements of our old English castles, we easily figure to ourselves barons proud of their deeds, and vassals in armour faithfully devoted to their service: in short, while beholding such scenes, the heart glows, until, by its feverish heat, feelings are produced to which no one can be completely insensible: however, when we awaken from this delightful dream, it is difficult, indeed impossible, to drive away the painful moral which, sooner or later in the day, proves to us much too clearly, that these ruins have outlived, and in fact commemorate, the errors, the passions, and the prejudices, which caused them to be built.But after looking up at the plain, unassuming pulpit of an old Lutheran church, one feels, long after one has left it, that all that has proceeded from its simple desk has been to promulgate peace, good-will, and happiness among mankind—and though, in its old age, it be now deserted, yet no one can deny that the seeds which in various directions it has scattered before the wind are not only vigorously flourishing in the little valley in which it stands, but must continue there and elsewhere to produce effects, which time itself can scarcely annihilate.Turning towards the altar, I was looking at pictures of the twelve apostles, who, like sentinels at their posts, were in various attitudes surrounding it, whenà proposto nothing, the great clock in the belfry struck four, and so little did I expect to hear any noise at all, that I could not help starting at being thus suddenly reminded, that the watch was still ticking in the fob of the dead soldier—in short, that that clock was still faithfully pointing out the progress of time, though the church to which it belonged had already, practically speaking, terminated its existence! Never did I before listen to four vibrations of an old church clock with more reverential attention: however, at each stroke involuntarily looking upwards, I did not altogether enjoy the sight of some loose rafters which were hanging over my head. I therefore very quietly moved onwards, yet, passing a small door, I could not resist clambering up an old well staircase which led to the belfry; not, however, until I had calculated that, as the building could bear the bells, my weight was not likely to turn the scale. I did not, however, feel disposed to reach the bells, but managed, through a rent in the wall, to look down on the roof, and such a scene of devastation it would be difficult to describe. The half-mouldered slates had not only been ripped away by the wind in every direction, but the remainder appeared as if they were just ready to follow in the flight. The roof was bending in, and altogether it looked so completely on the totter, that the slightest additional weight would have brought every thing to the ground. After descending, I went once more round the church, opened some of the old latticed pews—peeped into the marble font, which was half-filled with decayed mortar—took up a bird’s nest that had fallen into the chancel from the roof, and strolling towards the altar, I found there a small board covered with white pasteboard, and ornamented with a garland of roses. On this simple tablet were inscribed, in black letters, the names of the little band of Langen-Schwalbachians who had been present in the great campaign of 1815; and in case the reader should like to know not only who were the heroes of so remote a valley, but also what sort of names they possessed, I offer him a copy of the muster-roll of those thus distinguished for having served their native country, which the German language emphatically calls “Vaterland.”—Dem. VerdientfeerConrad BliesAdam BuslachAdam KlenigChristop LindleLudwig LiedebachLudwig DiefenbachMartin EscheneverPhilipp HoenigEberhard RuckerCasper SchenkPhilipp SinghoffEberhard HofmanWilhelm KochPhilipp KrausJohannes SartorFerdinand Wensel.Having carefully locked up the old church with all the relics it contained, descending the steps of the eminence on which it stood, I once more found myself in the street among fellow-creatures.The new Protestant church, which is very shortly to be built, and to which the bells of this old one, if possible, are to be removed, will be in the centre of the town, but this site, though more convenient, will not, I think, be so picturesque as that of the old building, which, with the Catholic Church at the other extremity of the town, seem to be the alpha and omega—the beginning and the end of Langen-Schwalbach. From the surrounding hills, as the eye glances from the one of these old buildings to the other, they appear to be the good Genii of the town—two guardian angels to watch over the welfare of its people here and hereafter.
Theold Protestant Church, at the lower extremity of Langen-Schwalbach, has not been preached in for about three years; and being locked up, I had to call for admission at a house in the centre of the town. The man was not at home, but his wife (very busily employed in dressing, against its will, a squalling infant) pointed to the key, which I gravely took from a nail over her head. This venerable building stands, or rather totters, on a small eminence close to the road—long rents in its walls, and the ruinous, decayed state of the mortar, sufficiently denoting its great antiquity. The roof and spire are still covered with slates, which seem fluttering as if about to take their departure. The churchyard continues in the valley to be the only Christian receptacle for the dead; and within its narrow limits, Catholics, Lutherans, and Calvinists end their worldly differences by soundly sleeping together, side by side. Here and there a tree is seen standing at the head of a Protestant’s grave; but though the twig was exclusively planted there, yet its branches, like knowledge, have gradually extended themselves, until they now wave and droop alike over those who, thus joined in death, had, nevertheless, lived in paltry opposition to each other. The rank grass also grows with equal luxuriance over all, as if the turf, like the trees, was anxious to level all human animosities, and to become the winding-sheet or covering of Christian fraternities which ought never to have disputed.
In various parts of the cemetery I observed several worn-out, wooden, triangular monuments on the totter; while others were lying prostrate on the grass—the “hic jacet” being exactly as applicable to each of themselves as to that departed being, whose life and death they had vainly presumed to commemorate. Although the inscriptions recorded by these frail historians were scarcely legible, yet roses and annual flowers, blooming on the grave, plainly showed that there was still in existence some friendly hand, some foot, some heart, that moved with kindly recollection towards the dead. Upon several recent graves of children there were placed, instead of tombstones, the wreaths of artificial flowers, which, during their funeral, had either rested upon the coffin, or had been carried in the hands of parents and friends. The sun and rain—the wind and storm—had blanched the artificial bloom from the red roses, and, of course, had sullied the purity of the white ones; yet this worthless finery, lying upon the newly-moved earth, had probably witnessed unaffected feelings, to which the cold, white marble monument is often a stranger. The little heap of perishable wreaths, so lightly piled one upon the other, was the act, the tribute, the effusion of the moment; it was all the mother had had to record her feelings; it was what she had left behind her, as she tore herself away; and though it could not, I own, be compared to a monument sculptured by an artist, yet, resting above the coffin, it had one intrinsic value, at least—it had been left there by a friend!
At one corner of the churchyard, there was a grave which was only just completed. The living labourer had retired from it; the dead tenant had not yet arrived; but the moment I looked into it, I could not help feeling how any one of our body-snatchers would have rubbed his rough hands, and what rude raptures he would have enjoyed, at observing that the lid of the coffin would be deposited scarcely a foot and a half below the sod. However, in the little duchy of Nassau, human corpses have not yet become coin current in the realm; and whatever may be a man’s troubles during his life, at Langen-Schwalbach he may truly say he will, at least, find rest in the grave.
I know it is very wrong—I know that one is always blamed for bringing before the mind of wealthy people any truth which is at all disagreeable to them; yet on the brink of this grave I could not help feeling how very much one ought to detest the polite Paris and London fashion of smartening up us old people with the teeth and hair of the dead? It always seems to me so unfair, for us who havehadour day—who have ourselvesbeenyoung—to attempt, when we grow old, to deprive the rising generation of the advantage of that contrast which so naturally enhances their beauties. The spring of life, to be justly appreciated and admired, requires to be compared with the snow and storms of winter, and if by chicanery you hide the latter, the sunshine of the former loses a great portion of its beauty. In naked, savage life, there exists no picture on which I have so repeatedly gazed with calm pleasure, as that of the daughter supporting the trembling, dilapidated fabric of the being to whom she owes her birth; indeed, it is as impossible for man to withhold the respect and pity which is due to age whenever it be seen labouring under its real infirmities, as it is for him to contain his admiration of the natural loveliness of youth. The parent and child, thus contrasted, render to each other services of which both appear to be insensible; for the mother does not seem aware how the shattered outlines of her faded frame heighten the robust, blooming beauties of her child, who, in her turn, seems equally unconscious how beautifully and eloquently her figure explains and pleads for the helpless decrepitude of age! In the Babel confusion of our fashionable world, this beautifully arranged contrast of nature, the effect of which no one who has ever seen it can forget, does not exist. Before the hair has grown really grey—before time has imparted to it even its autumnal tint, it is artfully replaced by dark flowing locks, obtained by every revolting contrivance. The grave itself is attacked—our living dowagers of the present day do not hesitate to borrow their youthful ornaments even from the dead—and to such a horrid extreme has fashion encouraged this unnatural propensity, that even the carcase of the soldier, who has fallen in a foreign land, and who,
“—————leaving in battle no blot on his name,Looks proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame,”
“—————leaving in battle no blot on his name,Looks proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame,”
“—————leaving in battle no blot on his name,Looks proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame,”
has not been respected!
One would think that the ribands and honours on his breast, flapping in the wind, would have scared even the vulture from such prey; but no! the orders which the London dentist has received must, he pleads, be punctually executed; and it is a revolting fact, but too well known to “the trade,” that many, and many, and many a set of teeth which bit the dust of Waterloo, by an untimely resurrection, appeared again on earth, smiling lasciviously at Almack’s ball! So much for what is termedfashion.
After rambling about the churchyard for some minutes, occasionally spelling at an inscription, and sometimes looking at (not picking) a sepulchral flower, I walked to the church-door, and turning round its old-fashioned key, which ever since I had received it had been dangling in my hand, the lock started back, and then, as if I had said “Open Sesame!” the door opened.
On looking before me, my first impression was that my head was swimming! for the old gallery, hanging like the gardens of Babylon, seemed to be writhing; the four-and-twenty pews were leaning sideways; the aisle, or approach to the altar, covered with heaps of rubbish, was an undulating line, and an immense sepulchral flag-stone had actually been lifted up at one side, as if the corpse, finding the church deserted, had resolutely burst from his grave, and had wrenched himself once again into daylight. The pulpit was out of its perpendicular; some pictures, loosely hanging against the wall, had turned away their faces; and a couple of planks were resting diagonally against the altar, as if they had fallen from the roof. I really rubbed my eyes, fancying that they were disordered; however, the confusion I witnessed was real, and as nearly as possible as I have described it. Still, however, there was no dampness in the church, and it was, I thought, a remarkable proof of the dryness of the light mountain air of Langen-Schwalbach, that the sepulchral wreaths of artificial flowers which were hanging around on the walls were as starched and stiff as on the day they were placed there.
A piece of dingy black cloth, with narrow white fringe, was the only ornament to the pulpit, from which both book and minister had so long departed. The thing was altogether on the totter; yet when I reflected what little harm it had done in the world, and how much good, I could not help acknowledging that respect was justly due to its old age, and that, even by the stranger, it ought to be regarded with sentiments of veneration. In gazing at monuments of antiquity, one of the most natural pleasures which the mind enjoys is by them fancifully transported to the scenes which they so clearly commemorate. The Roman amphitheatre becomes filled with gladiators and spectators;—the streets of Pompeii are seen again thronged with people;—the Grecian temple is ornamented with the votive offerings of heroes and of senators;—even the putrid marsh of Marathon teems with noble recollections;—while at home, on the battlements of our old English castles, we easily figure to ourselves barons proud of their deeds, and vassals in armour faithfully devoted to their service: in short, while beholding such scenes, the heart glows, until, by its feverish heat, feelings are produced to which no one can be completely insensible: however, when we awaken from this delightful dream, it is difficult, indeed impossible, to drive away the painful moral which, sooner or later in the day, proves to us much too clearly, that these ruins have outlived, and in fact commemorate, the errors, the passions, and the prejudices, which caused them to be built.
But after looking up at the plain, unassuming pulpit of an old Lutheran church, one feels, long after one has left it, that all that has proceeded from its simple desk has been to promulgate peace, good-will, and happiness among mankind—and though, in its old age, it be now deserted, yet no one can deny that the seeds which in various directions it has scattered before the wind are not only vigorously flourishing in the little valley in which it stands, but must continue there and elsewhere to produce effects, which time itself can scarcely annihilate.
Turning towards the altar, I was looking at pictures of the twelve apostles, who, like sentinels at their posts, were in various attitudes surrounding it, whenà proposto nothing, the great clock in the belfry struck four, and so little did I expect to hear any noise at all, that I could not help starting at being thus suddenly reminded, that the watch was still ticking in the fob of the dead soldier—in short, that that clock was still faithfully pointing out the progress of time, though the church to which it belonged had already, practically speaking, terminated its existence! Never did I before listen to four vibrations of an old church clock with more reverential attention: however, at each stroke involuntarily looking upwards, I did not altogether enjoy the sight of some loose rafters which were hanging over my head. I therefore very quietly moved onwards, yet, passing a small door, I could not resist clambering up an old well staircase which led to the belfry; not, however, until I had calculated that, as the building could bear the bells, my weight was not likely to turn the scale. I did not, however, feel disposed to reach the bells, but managed, through a rent in the wall, to look down on the roof, and such a scene of devastation it would be difficult to describe. The half-mouldered slates had not only been ripped away by the wind in every direction, but the remainder appeared as if they were just ready to follow in the flight. The roof was bending in, and altogether it looked so completely on the totter, that the slightest additional weight would have brought every thing to the ground. After descending, I went once more round the church, opened some of the old latticed pews—peeped into the marble font, which was half-filled with decayed mortar—took up a bird’s nest that had fallen into the chancel from the roof, and strolling towards the altar, I found there a small board covered with white pasteboard, and ornamented with a garland of roses. On this simple tablet were inscribed, in black letters, the names of the little band of Langen-Schwalbachians who had been present in the great campaign of 1815; and in case the reader should like to know not only who were the heroes of so remote a valley, but also what sort of names they possessed, I offer him a copy of the muster-roll of those thus distinguished for having served their native country, which the German language emphatically calls “Vaterland.”—
Dem. VerdientfeerConrad BliesAdam BuslachAdam KlenigChristop LindleLudwig LiedebachLudwig DiefenbachMartin EscheneverPhilipp HoenigEberhard RuckerCasper SchenkPhilipp SinghoffEberhard HofmanWilhelm KochPhilipp KrausJohannes SartorFerdinand Wensel.
Having carefully locked up the old church with all the relics it contained, descending the steps of the eminence on which it stood, I once more found myself in the street among fellow-creatures.
The new Protestant church, which is very shortly to be built, and to which the bells of this old one, if possible, are to be removed, will be in the centre of the town, but this site, though more convenient, will not, I think, be so picturesque as that of the old building, which, with the Catholic Church at the other extremity of the town, seem to be the alpha and omega—the beginning and the end of Langen-Schwalbach. From the surrounding hills, as the eye glances from the one of these old buildings to the other, they appear to be the good Genii of the town—two guardian angels to watch over the welfare of its people here and hereafter.
THE JEWISH SYNAGOGUE.Thelow part of Langen-Schwalbach, where the Jews live, is the most ancient portion of the town, the houses they inhabit being just above and below the great original brunnen or fountain, which, as I have stated, was celebrated for its medicinal properties even in the time of the Romans. This immense spring, which rises within a foot and a half of the surface of the ground (being then carried away by a subterranean drain), is two or three times as large as the Stahl brunnen, the Wein brunnen, or the fashionable Pauline. It contains very little iron, being principally sulphureous. From the violence with which it rises from the rock, the water is apparently constantly boiling, and such a suffocating gas arises from it, that, as at the Grotto del Cane, at Naples, one single inhalation would be nearly sufficient to deprive a person of his senses. Besides being strongly impregnated with this gas, it has also such an unearthly taste, that one almost fancies it must flow direct from the cellar of his Satanic majesty. Still, however, the Jews constantly drink, cook, and even wash with this water; however, being below the surface, it is necessary for them to stoop into the suffocating vapour whenever they fill their pitchers; and as one sees Jewess after Jewess dipping her dark greasy head into this infernal caldron, holding her breath, and then suddenly raising her head, with a momentary paleness and an aspiration which sufficiently explain her sensations, one feels anything but sympathy for a being who can voluntarily flutter in such a fetid climate.With sentiments, I fear, not very liberal, I stood for many minutes looking at those who came to fill their pitchers; at last, rather a better feeling shooting across me, I resolved once more to make a trial of water on which so many of my fellow-creatures seemed to subsist, and I accordingly dipped my hand into a large washing-tub which an old Jewess had half suffocated herself in filling with her pitcher. The woman offered me no sign or word of disrespect; but I saw her cast a withering look at the water, as if a cup of poison had been poured into it: she continued, however, very quietly to fill her other tubs; but after I had walked away, turning suddenly round for a moment, I saw her upset the tub from which I had drunk, her lips muttering at the same time some short observation to a sister Jewess standing beside her.I could not, however, help acknowledging that her prejudice was not more illiberal, and certainly far more excusable, than my own; and as I had determined to attend that evening the Jewish synagogue, in the meanwhile I did what I could to bring my mind to a proper state of feeling towards a people whose form of worship I was desirous seriously to witness.Never had I before chanced to enter a synagogue; yet, when I had reflected on the singular history of the Jews, I had often concluded that there must be some strange, unaccountable attraction, something inexplicably mysterious in their forms of worship, which could have induced them to brave the persecutions that in all ages, and in so many countries, had traced out their history in letters of blood.Full of curiosity, I had therefore inquired at what hour on Friday their church would assemble, and being told that they would meet “as soon as the stars were visible,” I walked towards the synagogue, a few minutes after sunset, and in every Jewish house I observed, as I passed it, seven candles burning in a circle. The house of worship was a small oblong hovel, not unlike a barn. The door was open, but no human being appeared within, excepting a man over whose shoulders there was thrown a piece of common brown sackcloth. This personage, who turned out to be the priest, stood before a sort of altar; and, just as careless of it as of us, he stood bowing to it incessantly. There being not much to see in these vibrations, I walked away, and returning in about five minutes, I found the congregation had suddenly assembled, and the service begun.In the course of my life, like most people, I have chanced to witness a great variety of forms of worship, several of which it would not be very easy to describe. For instance, it would be difficult, or rather impossible, to delineate, by words, high mass, as performed in the great church of St. Peter, at Rome. One might, indeed, fully describe any part of it, but the silence of one moment, the burst of music at another, the immensity of the building, and the assembled congregation, produce altogether sensations on the eye and ear which the goose-quill has not power to impart. Again, to the simple homage which a Peruvian Indian pays to the sun no man could do justice; one might describe his attitude as he prostrates himself before what he conceives to be the burning ruler of the universe, but the fleeting expressions of his supplicating countenance, as it trembles—hopes—flushes—and then, with eyes dazzled to dimness, trembles again,—may be witnessed, but cannot be described. One of the wildest forms of worship I ever beheld was, perhaps, the dance of the Dervishes, at Athens; for there is a sort of enthusiasm in the convulsions into which these twelve men throw themselves, which has a most indescribable effect on those who witness it: it is madness,—yet it is a tempest of the mind within the range of which no man’s senses can live unruffled;—the strongest judgment bends before the gale, and insensibly are the feelings led astray by conduct, actions, words, grimaces, and contortions, which, taken altogether, are indescribable.But although these and many other forms of worship may be original pictures which cannot be copied, yet I think a child of ten years of age, if he could only hold a pen, might give a reader as good a notion of the Langen-Schwalbach synagogue, as if he had been there himself a thousand times; for all the poor child would have to do would be to beg him imagine a small dirty barn, swarming with fleas, filled with dirty-looking men in dirty dresses, with old hats on their heads, spitting—hallooing—reading—bowing—hallooing louder than ever—scratching themselves as they leave the synagogue,—and then calmly walking home to their seven candles!To any serious, reflecting mind, all religions, to a certain point, are worthy of respect. It is true, all cannot be right, yet the errors are those which fellow-creatures need not dispute among each other; he who has the happiness to go right has no just cause to be offended with those who unfortunately have mistaken their course; and however men’s political opinions may radiate from each other, yet their zeal for religion is at least one tie which ought to connect them together. However, the Jews of Langen-Schwalbach, so far as a spectator can judge by their behaviour, do not even pretend to be zealous in their cause. There is no pretence of feeling, not attempt either at humbug or effect. They perform their service as if, having made a regular bargain to receive certain blessings for hallooing a certain time, they conceived that all they had to do was scrupulously to perform their part of the contract, that there was no occasion to exceed their agreement, or give more than was absolutely required by the bond.As I stood just within the door of the synagogue, listening to their rude, uncouth, noisy worship, almost every eye was turned upon me, and the expression of many of the countenances was so ill-favoured, that I very soon left them, though I had even then a long way to walk before I ceased to hear the strange wild hullabulloo they were making.
Thelow part of Langen-Schwalbach, where the Jews live, is the most ancient portion of the town, the houses they inhabit being just above and below the great original brunnen or fountain, which, as I have stated, was celebrated for its medicinal properties even in the time of the Romans. This immense spring, which rises within a foot and a half of the surface of the ground (being then carried away by a subterranean drain), is two or three times as large as the Stahl brunnen, the Wein brunnen, or the fashionable Pauline. It contains very little iron, being principally sulphureous. From the violence with which it rises from the rock, the water is apparently constantly boiling, and such a suffocating gas arises from it, that, as at the Grotto del Cane, at Naples, one single inhalation would be nearly sufficient to deprive a person of his senses. Besides being strongly impregnated with this gas, it has also such an unearthly taste, that one almost fancies it must flow direct from the cellar of his Satanic majesty. Still, however, the Jews constantly drink, cook, and even wash with this water; however, being below the surface, it is necessary for them to stoop into the suffocating vapour whenever they fill their pitchers; and as one sees Jewess after Jewess dipping her dark greasy head into this infernal caldron, holding her breath, and then suddenly raising her head, with a momentary paleness and an aspiration which sufficiently explain her sensations, one feels anything but sympathy for a being who can voluntarily flutter in such a fetid climate.
With sentiments, I fear, not very liberal, I stood for many minutes looking at those who came to fill their pitchers; at last, rather a better feeling shooting across me, I resolved once more to make a trial of water on which so many of my fellow-creatures seemed to subsist, and I accordingly dipped my hand into a large washing-tub which an old Jewess had half suffocated herself in filling with her pitcher. The woman offered me no sign or word of disrespect; but I saw her cast a withering look at the water, as if a cup of poison had been poured into it: she continued, however, very quietly to fill her other tubs; but after I had walked away, turning suddenly round for a moment, I saw her upset the tub from which I had drunk, her lips muttering at the same time some short observation to a sister Jewess standing beside her.
I could not, however, help acknowledging that her prejudice was not more illiberal, and certainly far more excusable, than my own; and as I had determined to attend that evening the Jewish synagogue, in the meanwhile I did what I could to bring my mind to a proper state of feeling towards a people whose form of worship I was desirous seriously to witness.
Never had I before chanced to enter a synagogue; yet, when I had reflected on the singular history of the Jews, I had often concluded that there must be some strange, unaccountable attraction, something inexplicably mysterious in their forms of worship, which could have induced them to brave the persecutions that in all ages, and in so many countries, had traced out their history in letters of blood.
Full of curiosity, I had therefore inquired at what hour on Friday their church would assemble, and being told that they would meet “as soon as the stars were visible,” I walked towards the synagogue, a few minutes after sunset, and in every Jewish house I observed, as I passed it, seven candles burning in a circle. The house of worship was a small oblong hovel, not unlike a barn. The door was open, but no human being appeared within, excepting a man over whose shoulders there was thrown a piece of common brown sackcloth. This personage, who turned out to be the priest, stood before a sort of altar; and, just as careless of it as of us, he stood bowing to it incessantly. There being not much to see in these vibrations, I walked away, and returning in about five minutes, I found the congregation had suddenly assembled, and the service begun.
In the course of my life, like most people, I have chanced to witness a great variety of forms of worship, several of which it would not be very easy to describe. For instance, it would be difficult, or rather impossible, to delineate, by words, high mass, as performed in the great church of St. Peter, at Rome. One might, indeed, fully describe any part of it, but the silence of one moment, the burst of music at another, the immensity of the building, and the assembled congregation, produce altogether sensations on the eye and ear which the goose-quill has not power to impart. Again, to the simple homage which a Peruvian Indian pays to the sun no man could do justice; one might describe his attitude as he prostrates himself before what he conceives to be the burning ruler of the universe, but the fleeting expressions of his supplicating countenance, as it trembles—hopes—flushes—and then, with eyes dazzled to dimness, trembles again,—may be witnessed, but cannot be described. One of the wildest forms of worship I ever beheld was, perhaps, the dance of the Dervishes, at Athens; for there is a sort of enthusiasm in the convulsions into which these twelve men throw themselves, which has a most indescribable effect on those who witness it: it is madness,—yet it is a tempest of the mind within the range of which no man’s senses can live unruffled;—the strongest judgment bends before the gale, and insensibly are the feelings led astray by conduct, actions, words, grimaces, and contortions, which, taken altogether, are indescribable.
But although these and many other forms of worship may be original pictures which cannot be copied, yet I think a child of ten years of age, if he could only hold a pen, might give a reader as good a notion of the Langen-Schwalbach synagogue, as if he had been there himself a thousand times; for all the poor child would have to do would be to beg him imagine a small dirty barn, swarming with fleas, filled with dirty-looking men in dirty dresses, with old hats on their heads, spitting—hallooing—reading—bowing—hallooing louder than ever—scratching themselves as they leave the synagogue,—and then calmly walking home to their seven candles!
To any serious, reflecting mind, all religions, to a certain point, are worthy of respect. It is true, all cannot be right, yet the errors are those which fellow-creatures need not dispute among each other; he who has the happiness to go right has no just cause to be offended with those who unfortunately have mistaken their course; and however men’s political opinions may radiate from each other, yet their zeal for religion is at least one tie which ought to connect them together. However, the Jews of Langen-Schwalbach, so far as a spectator can judge by their behaviour, do not even pretend to be zealous in their cause. There is no pretence of feeling, not attempt either at humbug or effect. They perform their service as if, having made a regular bargain to receive certain blessings for hallooing a certain time, they conceived that all they had to do was scrupulously to perform their part of the contract, that there was no occasion to exceed their agreement, or give more than was absolutely required by the bond.
As I stood just within the door of the synagogue, listening to their rude, uncouth, noisy worship, almost every eye was turned upon me, and the expression of many of the countenances was so ill-favoured, that I very soon left them, though I had even then a long way to walk before I ceased to hear the strange wild hullabulloo they were making.
THE HARVEST.Allthis day I have been strolling about the fields, watching the getting in of the harvest. The crops of oats, rye, and wheat (principally bearded) are much heavier than any one would expect from such light and apparently poor land; but the heavy dews which characterize the summer climate of this high country impart a nourishment which, in richer lands, often lies dormant from drought. In Nassau, the corn is cut principally by women, who use a sickle so very small and light, that it seems but little labour to wield it. They begin early in the morning, and with short intervals of rest continue till eleven o'clock, when the various village bells suddenly strike up a merry peal, which is a signal to the labourers to come home to their dinners. It is a very interesting scene to observe, over the undulating surface of the whole country, groups of peasants, brothers, sisters, parents, &c., all bending to their sickles—to see children playing round infants lying fast asleep on blue smock-frocks placed under the shade of the corn sheaves. It is pleasing to remark the rapid progress which the several parties are making; how each little family, attacking its own patch or property, works its way into the standing corn, leaving the crop prostrate behind them; and then, in the middle of this simple, rural, busy scene, it is delightful indeed to hear from the belfry of their much-revered churches a peal of cheerful notes, which peacefully sound “lullaby” to them all. In a very few seconds the square fields and little oblong plots are deserted, and then the various roads and paths of the country suddenly burst in lines upon the attention, each being delineated by a string of peasants, who are straggling one behind the other, until paths in all directions are seen converging towards the parental village churches, which seem to be attracting them all.As soon as each field of corn is cut, it is bound into sheaves, about the size they are in England: seven of these are then made to lean towards each other, and upon them all is placed a large sheaf reversed, the ears of which hanging downwards form a sort of thatch, which keeps this little stack dry until its owner has time to carry it to his home. It generally remains many days in this state, and after the harvest has been all cut, the country covered with these stacks resembles a vast encampment.The carts and waggons used for carrying the corn are exceedingly well adapted to the country. Their particular characteristic is excessive lightness, and, indeed, were they heavy, it would be quite impossible for any cattle to draw them up and down the hills. Occasionally they are drawn by horses—often by small active oxen; but cows more generally perform this duty, and with quite as much patience as their mistresses, at the same moment, are labouring before them at the sickle. The yoke, or beam, by which these cows are connected, is placed immediately behind their horns; a little leathern pillow is then laid upon their brow, over which passes a strap that firmly lashes their heads to the beam, and it is, therefore, against such soft cushions that the animals push to advance: and thus linked together for life, by this sort of Siamese band, it is curious to observe them eating together, then by agreement raising their heads to swallow, then again standing motionless chewing the cud, which is seen passing and repassing from the stomach to the mouth.At first, when, standing near them, I smelt from their breath the sweet fresh milk, it seemed hard that they should thus be, as it were, domestic candles, lighted at both ends: however, verily do I believe that all animals prefer exercise, or even hard work, to any sort of confinement, and if so, they are certainly happier than our stall-fed cows, many of which, in certain parts of Britain, may be seen with their heads fixed economically for months between two vertical beams of wood. The Nassau cows certainly do not seem to suffer while working in their light carts; as soon as their mistress advances, they follow her, and if she turns and whips them, then they seem to hurry after her more eagerly than ever.It is true, hard labour has the effect of impoverishing their milk, and the calf at home is consequently (so far as it is concerned) a loser by the bargain: however, there is no child in the peasant’s family who has not had cause to make the same complaint; and, therefore, so long as the labourer’s wife carries her infant to the harvest, the milch cow may very fairly be required to draw to the hovel what has been cut by her hands.Nothing can be better adapted to the features of the country, nothing can better accord with the feeble resources of its inhabitants, than the equipment of these economical waggons and carts: the cows and oxen can ascend any of the hills, or descend into any of the valleys; they can, without slipping, go sideways along the face of the hills, and in crossing the green, swampy, grassy-ravines, I particularly remarked the advantage of the light waggon drawn by animals with cloven feet; for had one of our heavy teams attempted the passage, like a set of flies walking across a plate of treacle, they would soon have become unable to extricate even themselves. But in making the comparison between the horse and the cow (as far as regards Nassau husbandry), I may further observe, that the former has a very expensive appetite, and wears very expensive shoes; as soon as he becomes lame he is useless, and as soon as he is dead he is carrion. Now a placid, patient Langen-Schwalbach cow, in the bloom of her youth, costs only two or three pounds; she requires neither corn nor shoeing: the leaves of the forest, drawn by herself to the village, form her bed, which in due time she carries out to the field as manure: there is nothing a light cart can carry which she is not ready to fetch, and from her work she cheerfully returns to her home to give milk, cream, butter and cheese to the establishment: at her death she is still worth eleven kreuzers a pound as beef; and when her flesh has disappeared, her bones, after being ground at the mill, once again appear upon her master’s fields, to cheer, manure, and enrich them.As, quite in love with cows, I was returning from the harvest, I met the Nassau letter-cart, one of the cheapest carriages for its purpose that can well be conceived. It consists of a pair of high wheels connected by a short axle, upon which are riveted a few boards framed together in the form of a small shallow box; in this little coffin the letter-bag is buried, and upon it, like a monument, sits a light boy dressed in the uniform of a Nassau postillion, who with a trumpet in one hand, a long whip in the other, and the reins sporting loose under his feet, starts as if he deliberately meant mischief, intending to get well over his ground; and there being scarcely any weight to carry, the horse really might proceed as a mail-coach horse ought to go; but that horrible Punch and Judy trumpet upsets the whole arrangement, for as the thing is very heavy, the child soon takes two hands to it instead of one, when down goes the whip, and from that moment the picture, which promised to be a good one, is spoiled.The letter-bag crawls, like a reptile, along the road; while the boy, amusing himself with his plaything, reminds one of those “nursery rhymes” which say,“And with rings on his fingers, and bells on his toes,We shall have music wherever he goes.”It is quite provoking to see a government carriage in its theory so simply imagined, and so cleverly adapted to its purpose, thus completely ruined in its practice. Music may be, and indeed is, very delightful in its way; but a tune is one thing—speed another; and it always seems to me a pity that the Duke of Nassau should allow these two substantives to be so completely confounded in his dominions.How admirably does the long tin horn of the guard of one of our mail-coaches perform its blunt duty!—a single blast is sufficient to remove the obstruction of an old gentleman in his gig—two are generally enough for a heavy cart—three for a waggon—and half-a-dozen slowly and sternly applied, are always sufficient to awaken the snoring keeper of a turnpike-gate—in short, to“Break his bands of sleep asunder,And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.Hark! hark! the horrid soundHas raised up his head, as awaked from the dead,And amazed he stares around!”The gala turn-out of our mail-coaches on the King’s birth-day, I always think must strike foreigners more than anything else in our country with the sterling solid integrity of the English character. To see so many well-bred horses in such magnificent condition—so many well-built carriages—so many excellent drivers, and such a corps of steady, quiet, resolute-looking men as guards, each wearing, as well as every coachman, the King’s own livery—all this must silently point out, even to our most jealous enemies, not only the wealth of the country, but the firm basis on which it stands; in short, it must prove to them most undeniably, that there is no one thing in England which, throughout the land, is treated with so much universal attention and respect, as the honest, speedy, and safe delivery of the letters and commercial correspondence of the country. Nevertheless, if our English coachmen were to be allowed, instead of attending to their horses, to play on trumpets as they proceeded, we should, as in the Duchy of Nassau, soon pay very dearly for their music.
Allthis day I have been strolling about the fields, watching the getting in of the harvest. The crops of oats, rye, and wheat (principally bearded) are much heavier than any one would expect from such light and apparently poor land; but the heavy dews which characterize the summer climate of this high country impart a nourishment which, in richer lands, often lies dormant from drought. In Nassau, the corn is cut principally by women, who use a sickle so very small and light, that it seems but little labour to wield it. They begin early in the morning, and with short intervals of rest continue till eleven o'clock, when the various village bells suddenly strike up a merry peal, which is a signal to the labourers to come home to their dinners. It is a very interesting scene to observe, over the undulating surface of the whole country, groups of peasants, brothers, sisters, parents, &c., all bending to their sickles—to see children playing round infants lying fast asleep on blue smock-frocks placed under the shade of the corn sheaves. It is pleasing to remark the rapid progress which the several parties are making; how each little family, attacking its own patch or property, works its way into the standing corn, leaving the crop prostrate behind them; and then, in the middle of this simple, rural, busy scene, it is delightful indeed to hear from the belfry of their much-revered churches a peal of cheerful notes, which peacefully sound “lullaby” to them all. In a very few seconds the square fields and little oblong plots are deserted, and then the various roads and paths of the country suddenly burst in lines upon the attention, each being delineated by a string of peasants, who are straggling one behind the other, until paths in all directions are seen converging towards the parental village churches, which seem to be attracting them all.
As soon as each field of corn is cut, it is bound into sheaves, about the size they are in England: seven of these are then made to lean towards each other, and upon them all is placed a large sheaf reversed, the ears of which hanging downwards form a sort of thatch, which keeps this little stack dry until its owner has time to carry it to his home. It generally remains many days in this state, and after the harvest has been all cut, the country covered with these stacks resembles a vast encampment.
The carts and waggons used for carrying the corn are exceedingly well adapted to the country. Their particular characteristic is excessive lightness, and, indeed, were they heavy, it would be quite impossible for any cattle to draw them up and down the hills. Occasionally they are drawn by horses—often by small active oxen; but cows more generally perform this duty, and with quite as much patience as their mistresses, at the same moment, are labouring before them at the sickle. The yoke, or beam, by which these cows are connected, is placed immediately behind their horns; a little leathern pillow is then laid upon their brow, over which passes a strap that firmly lashes their heads to the beam, and it is, therefore, against such soft cushions that the animals push to advance: and thus linked together for life, by this sort of Siamese band, it is curious to observe them eating together, then by agreement raising their heads to swallow, then again standing motionless chewing the cud, which is seen passing and repassing from the stomach to the mouth.
At first, when, standing near them, I smelt from their breath the sweet fresh milk, it seemed hard that they should thus be, as it were, domestic candles, lighted at both ends: however, verily do I believe that all animals prefer exercise, or even hard work, to any sort of confinement, and if so, they are certainly happier than our stall-fed cows, many of which, in certain parts of Britain, may be seen with their heads fixed economically for months between two vertical beams of wood. The Nassau cows certainly do not seem to suffer while working in their light carts; as soon as their mistress advances, they follow her, and if she turns and whips them, then they seem to hurry after her more eagerly than ever.
It is true, hard labour has the effect of impoverishing their milk, and the calf at home is consequently (so far as it is concerned) a loser by the bargain: however, there is no child in the peasant’s family who has not had cause to make the same complaint; and, therefore, so long as the labourer’s wife carries her infant to the harvest, the milch cow may very fairly be required to draw to the hovel what has been cut by her hands.
Nothing can be better adapted to the features of the country, nothing can better accord with the feeble resources of its inhabitants, than the equipment of these economical waggons and carts: the cows and oxen can ascend any of the hills, or descend into any of the valleys; they can, without slipping, go sideways along the face of the hills, and in crossing the green, swampy, grassy-ravines, I particularly remarked the advantage of the light waggon drawn by animals with cloven feet; for had one of our heavy teams attempted the passage, like a set of flies walking across a plate of treacle, they would soon have become unable to extricate even themselves. But in making the comparison between the horse and the cow (as far as regards Nassau husbandry), I may further observe, that the former has a very expensive appetite, and wears very expensive shoes; as soon as he becomes lame he is useless, and as soon as he is dead he is carrion. Now a placid, patient Langen-Schwalbach cow, in the bloom of her youth, costs only two or three pounds; she requires neither corn nor shoeing: the leaves of the forest, drawn by herself to the village, form her bed, which in due time she carries out to the field as manure: there is nothing a light cart can carry which she is not ready to fetch, and from her work she cheerfully returns to her home to give milk, cream, butter and cheese to the establishment: at her death she is still worth eleven kreuzers a pound as beef; and when her flesh has disappeared, her bones, after being ground at the mill, once again appear upon her master’s fields, to cheer, manure, and enrich them.
As, quite in love with cows, I was returning from the harvest, I met the Nassau letter-cart, one of the cheapest carriages for its purpose that can well be conceived. It consists of a pair of high wheels connected by a short axle, upon which are riveted a few boards framed together in the form of a small shallow box; in this little coffin the letter-bag is buried, and upon it, like a monument, sits a light boy dressed in the uniform of a Nassau postillion, who with a trumpet in one hand, a long whip in the other, and the reins sporting loose under his feet, starts as if he deliberately meant mischief, intending to get well over his ground; and there being scarcely any weight to carry, the horse really might proceed as a mail-coach horse ought to go; but that horrible Punch and Judy trumpet upsets the whole arrangement, for as the thing is very heavy, the child soon takes two hands to it instead of one, when down goes the whip, and from that moment the picture, which promised to be a good one, is spoiled.
The letter-bag crawls, like a reptile, along the road; while the boy, amusing himself with his plaything, reminds one of those “nursery rhymes” which say,
“And with rings on his fingers, and bells on his toes,We shall have music wherever he goes.”
“And with rings on his fingers, and bells on his toes,We shall have music wherever he goes.”
“And with rings on his fingers, and bells on his toes,We shall have music wherever he goes.”
It is quite provoking to see a government carriage in its theory so simply imagined, and so cleverly adapted to its purpose, thus completely ruined in its practice. Music may be, and indeed is, very delightful in its way; but a tune is one thing—speed another; and it always seems to me a pity that the Duke of Nassau should allow these two substantives to be so completely confounded in his dominions.
How admirably does the long tin horn of the guard of one of our mail-coaches perform its blunt duty!—a single blast is sufficient to remove the obstruction of an old gentleman in his gig—two are generally enough for a heavy cart—three for a waggon—and half-a-dozen slowly and sternly applied, are always sufficient to awaken the snoring keeper of a turnpike-gate—in short, to
“Break his bands of sleep asunder,And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.Hark! hark! the horrid soundHas raised up his head, as awaked from the dead,And amazed he stares around!”
“Break his bands of sleep asunder,And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.Hark! hark! the horrid soundHas raised up his head, as awaked from the dead,And amazed he stares around!”
“Break his bands of sleep asunder,And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.Hark! hark! the horrid soundHas raised up his head, as awaked from the dead,And amazed he stares around!”
The gala turn-out of our mail-coaches on the King’s birth-day, I always think must strike foreigners more than anything else in our country with the sterling solid integrity of the English character. To see so many well-bred horses in such magnificent condition—so many well-built carriages—so many excellent drivers, and such a corps of steady, quiet, resolute-looking men as guards, each wearing, as well as every coachman, the King’s own livery—all this must silently point out, even to our most jealous enemies, not only the wealth of the country, but the firm basis on which it stands; in short, it must prove to them most undeniably, that there is no one thing in England which, throughout the land, is treated with so much universal attention and respect, as the honest, speedy, and safe delivery of the letters and commercial correspondence of the country. Nevertheless, if our English coachmen were to be allowed, instead of attending to their horses, to play on trumpets as they proceeded, we should, as in the Duchy of Nassau, soon pay very dearly for their music.
THE SUNSET.Ithad been hot all day—the roads had been dusty—the ground, as one trod upon it, had felt warm—the air was motionless—animal as well as vegetable life appeared weak and exhausted—Nature herself seemed parched and thirsty—the people on the promenade, as it got hotter and hotter, had walked slower and slower, until they were now crawling along as unwillingly as if they had been marching to their graves. The world, as if from apathy, was coming to a stand still—Langen-Schwalbach itself appeared to be fainting away, when the evening sun, having rested for a moment on the western height, gradually vanished from our sight.His red tyrannical rays had hardly left our pale abject faces, when all people suddenly revived; like a herd of fawning courtiers who had been kept trembling before their king, they felt that, left to themselves, they could now breathe, and think, and stamp their feet. Parasols, one after another, were shut up—the pedestrians on the promenade freshened their pace—even fat patients, who had long been at anchor on the benches, began to show symptoms of getting under weigh—every leaf seemed suddenly to be enjoying the cool gentle breeze which was now felt stealing up the valley; until, in a very few minutes, everything in Nature was restored to life and enjoyment.It was the hour for returning to my “hof,” but the air as it blew into my window was so delightfully refreshing, and so irresistibly inviting, that I and my broad-brimmed hat went outtête-à-têteto enjoy it. As we passed the red pond of iron water, opposite to the great “Indian Hof,” which comes from the strong Stahl brunnen, having nothing to do, I lingered for some time watching the horses that were brought there. After having toiled through the excessive heat of the day, any water would have been agreeable to them; but the nice, cool, strengthening, effervescing mixture into which they were now led, seemed to be so exceedingly delightful, that they were scarcely up to their knees before they made a strong attempt to drink: but the rule being that they should first half walk and half swim two or three times round the pond, this cleansing or ablution was no sooner over—the reins were no sooner loosened—when down went their heads into the red cooling pool; and one had then only to look at the horses’ eyes to appreciate their enjoyment. With the whole of their mouths and nostrils immersed, they seemed as if they fancied they could drink the pond dry; however, the greedy force with which they held their heads down gradually relaxed, until, at last, up they were raised, with an aspiration which seemed to say, “We can hold no more!” In about ten seconds, however, their noses again dropped to the surface, but only to play with an element which seemed now to be useless—so completely had one single draught altered its current value! As I stood at the edge of this pond, leaning over the rail, mentally participating with the horses in the luxury they were enjoying, a violent shower of rain came on; yet, before I had hurried fifty yards for an umbrella, it had ceased. These little showers are exceedingly common amongst the hills of Nassau in the evenings of very hot days. From the power of the sun, the valleys during the day are filled brimful with a steam, or exhalation, which no sooner loses its parent, the sun, than the cold condenses it; and then, like the tear on the cheek of a child that has suddenly missed its mother, down it falls in heavy drops, and the next instant—smiles again.As the air was very agreeable, I wandered up the hilly road which leads to Bad-Ems; and then, strolling into a field of corn, which had been just cut, I continued to climb the mountain, until, turning round, I found, as I expected, that I had attained just the sort of view I wanted; but it would be impossible to describe to the reader the freshness of the scene. Beneath was the long scrambling village of the Langen-Schwalbach, the slates of which, absolutely blooming from the shower they had just received, looked so very clean and fresh, that for some time my eyes quite enjoyed rambling from one roof to the next, and then glancing from one extremity of the town to the other;—they had been looking at hot dazzling objects all day—I thought I never should be able to raise them from the cool blue wet slates. However, as the light rapidly faded, the landscape itself soon became equally refreshing, for the dry parched corn-fields assumed a richer hue, the green crops seemed bending under dew, and the whole picture, hills, town, and all, appeared so newly painted, that the colours from Nature’s brush were too fresh to be dry. All of a sudden, majestically rolling up the valley, was seen a misty vapour, which, at last, reaching the houses, rolled from roof to roof, until it hovered over, or rather rested upon the whole town, and this was no sooner the case than the slates seemed all to have vanished!In vain I looked for them, for the cloud exactly matching them in colour had so completely disguised them, that they formed nothing now but the base or foundation of the misty fabric which rested upon them. Instead of a blue town, Langen-Schwalbach now appeared to be a white one; for, the roofs no longer attracting attention, the shining walls burst into notice, and a serpentine line of glistening patches, nearly resembling a ridge of snow, clearly marked out the shape and limits of the town; but as, in this elevated country, there is little or no twilight, the features of the picture again rapidly faded, until even this white line was hardly to be seen; corn-fields could now scarcely be distinguished from green crops—all became dark—and the large forest on the south hills, as well as the small woods which are scattered on the heights, had so completely lost their colour, that they appeared to be immense black pits or holes. In a short time every thing beneath me was lost; and sitting on the ground, leaning against seven sheaves of corn piled up together, I was enjoying the sublime serenity, the mysterious uncertainty of the scene before me, when another very beautiful change took place!I believe I have already told the reader that, beside myself, there were about 1200 strangers in the little village of Langen-Schwalbach. Of course every hof was fully inhabited, and, as soon as darkness prevailed, the effect produced by each house being suddenly and almost simultaneously lighted up, was really quite romantic. In every direction, sometimes at the top of one hof, then at the bottom of another, lights burst into existence—the eye attracted, eagerly flew from one to another, until, from the number which burst into life, it became quite impossible to attend to each. The bottom of the valley, like the dancing of fire-flies, was sparkling in the most irregular succession; till, in a short time, this fantastic confusion vanished, and every room (there being no shutters) having its light, Langen-Schwalbach was once again restored to view—each house, and every story of each house, being now clearly defined by a regular and very pleasing illumination; and while, seated in utter darkness, I gazed at the gay sparkling scene before me, I could not help feeling that, of all the beautiful contrasts in Nature, there can be no one more vivid than the sudden change between darkness and light. How weary we should be of eternal sunshine,—how gloomy would it be to grope through one’s life in utter darkness, and yet what loveliness do each of these, by contrast, impart to the other! On the heights above the village, how magnificent was the darkness after a hot sun-shining day; and then, again, how lovely was the twinkling even of tallow-candles, when they suddenly burst upon this darkness! Yet it is with these two ingredients that Nature works up all her pictures; and, as Paganini’s tunes all come out of two strings of cat-gut, and two of the entrails of a kitten, so do all the varieties which please our eyes proceed from a mixture in different proportions of light and shade; and, indeed, in the moral world, it is the chiaro-oscuro, the brightness and darkness of which alone form the happiness of our existence. What would prosperity be, if there was no such sorrow as adversity? what would health be if sickness did not exist? and what would be the smile of an approving conscience if there was not the torment of repentance writhing under guilt? But I will persecute the reader no longer with the reflections which occurred to me, as I sat in a wheat-field, gazing on the lights of Langen-Schwalbach. Good or bad, they managed to please me; however, after remaining in darkness, till it became much colder than was agreeable, I wandered back to my hof, entered my dormitory, and my head having there found its pillow, as I extinguished my candle, I mumbled to myself—“There goes one of the tallow stars of Langen-Schwalbach!—Sic transit gloria mundi!”I was lying prostrate, still awake—and (there being no shutters to the window at the foot of the bed) I was looking at some oddly-shaped, tall, acute-angled, slated roofs, glistening in the light of the round full moon, which was hanging immediately above them. The scene was delightfully silent and serene. Occasionally I faintly heard a distant footstep approaching, until treading heavily under the window, its sound gradually diminished, till all again was silent. Sometimes a cloud passing slowly across the moon would veil the roofs in darkness; and then, again, they would suddenly burst upon the eye, in silvery light, shining brighter than ever. As somewhat fatigued I lay half enjoying this scene, and half dozing, I suddenly heard, apparently close to me, the scream of a woman, which really quite electrified me!On listening it was repeated, when, jumping out of bed and opening the door, I heard it again proceeding from a room at the distant end of the passage; and such was the violence of its tone, that my impression was—“the lady’s room is on fire!”There is something in the piercing shriek of a woman in distress which produces an irresistible effect on the featherless biped, called man; and, in rushing to her assistance, he performs no duty—he exercises no virtue—but merely obeys an instinctive impulse which has been benevolently imparted to him—not for his own good, but for the safety and protection of a weaker and a better sex.But although this feeling exists so powerfully chez nous, yet it has not by nature been imparted to common-place garments, such as coats, black figured silk waistcoats, rusty knee-breeches, nor even to easy shoes, blue worsted stockings, or such like; and, therefore, while, by an irresistible attraction which I could not possibly counteract, obeying the mysterious impulse of my nature, I rushed along the passage, these base, unchivalric garments remained coldly dangling over the back of a chair: in short, I followed the laws of my nature—they, theirs.With some difficulty, having succeeded in bursting open the door just as a fifth shriek was repeated, I rushed in, and there, sitting up in her bed—her soft arms most anxiously extended towards me—her countenance expressing an agony of fear—sat a young lady, by no means ill-favoured, and aged (as near as I could hastily calculate) about twenty-one!Almost in hysterics, she began, in German, to tell a long incoherent story; and though, with calm, natural dignity, I did what I could to quiet her, the tears rushed into her eyes—she then almost in convulsions began, with her hands under the bed-clothes, to scratch her knees, then shrieked again; and I do confess that I was altogether at a loss to conceive what in the sacred name of virtue was the matter with the young lady, when, by her repeating several times the word “Ratten! Ratten!!” I at once comprehended that there were (or that the amiable young person fancied that there were)—rats in her bed!The dog Billy, as well as many puppies of less name, would instantly, perhaps, have commenced a vigorous attack; rats, however, are reptiles I am not in the habit either of hunting or destroying.The young lady’s aunt, an elderly personage, now appeared at the door, in her night-clothes, as yellow and as sallow as if she had just risen from the grave; peeping over her shoulder, stood our landlady’s blooming daughter in her bed-gown—Leonhard, the soncum multis aliis. What they could all have thought of the scene—what they could have thought of my strange, gaunt, unadorned appearance—what they could have thought of the niece’s screams—and what they would have thought had I deigned to tell them I had come to her bedside merely to catch rats—it was out of my power to divine: however, the fact was, I cared not a straw what they thought; but, seeing that my presence was not requisite, I gravely left the poor innocent sufferer to tell her own story. “Ratten! Ratten!!” was its theme; and, long before her fears subsided, my mind, as well as its body, were placidly intranced in sleep.
Ithad been hot all day—the roads had been dusty—the ground, as one trod upon it, had felt warm—the air was motionless—animal as well as vegetable life appeared weak and exhausted—Nature herself seemed parched and thirsty—the people on the promenade, as it got hotter and hotter, had walked slower and slower, until they were now crawling along as unwillingly as if they had been marching to their graves. The world, as if from apathy, was coming to a stand still—Langen-Schwalbach itself appeared to be fainting away, when the evening sun, having rested for a moment on the western height, gradually vanished from our sight.
His red tyrannical rays had hardly left our pale abject faces, when all people suddenly revived; like a herd of fawning courtiers who had been kept trembling before their king, they felt that, left to themselves, they could now breathe, and think, and stamp their feet. Parasols, one after another, were shut up—the pedestrians on the promenade freshened their pace—even fat patients, who had long been at anchor on the benches, began to show symptoms of getting under weigh—every leaf seemed suddenly to be enjoying the cool gentle breeze which was now felt stealing up the valley; until, in a very few minutes, everything in Nature was restored to life and enjoyment.
It was the hour for returning to my “hof,” but the air as it blew into my window was so delightfully refreshing, and so irresistibly inviting, that I and my broad-brimmed hat went outtête-à-têteto enjoy it. As we passed the red pond of iron water, opposite to the great “Indian Hof,” which comes from the strong Stahl brunnen, having nothing to do, I lingered for some time watching the horses that were brought there. After having toiled through the excessive heat of the day, any water would have been agreeable to them; but the nice, cool, strengthening, effervescing mixture into which they were now led, seemed to be so exceedingly delightful, that they were scarcely up to their knees before they made a strong attempt to drink: but the rule being that they should first half walk and half swim two or three times round the pond, this cleansing or ablution was no sooner over—the reins were no sooner loosened—when down went their heads into the red cooling pool; and one had then only to look at the horses’ eyes to appreciate their enjoyment. With the whole of their mouths and nostrils immersed, they seemed as if they fancied they could drink the pond dry; however, the greedy force with which they held their heads down gradually relaxed, until, at last, up they were raised, with an aspiration which seemed to say, “We can hold no more!” In about ten seconds, however, their noses again dropped to the surface, but only to play with an element which seemed now to be useless—so completely had one single draught altered its current value! As I stood at the edge of this pond, leaning over the rail, mentally participating with the horses in the luxury they were enjoying, a violent shower of rain came on; yet, before I had hurried fifty yards for an umbrella, it had ceased. These little showers are exceedingly common amongst the hills of Nassau in the evenings of very hot days. From the power of the sun, the valleys during the day are filled brimful with a steam, or exhalation, which no sooner loses its parent, the sun, than the cold condenses it; and then, like the tear on the cheek of a child that has suddenly missed its mother, down it falls in heavy drops, and the next instant—smiles again.
As the air was very agreeable, I wandered up the hilly road which leads to Bad-Ems; and then, strolling into a field of corn, which had been just cut, I continued to climb the mountain, until, turning round, I found, as I expected, that I had attained just the sort of view I wanted; but it would be impossible to describe to the reader the freshness of the scene. Beneath was the long scrambling village of the Langen-Schwalbach, the slates of which, absolutely blooming from the shower they had just received, looked so very clean and fresh, that for some time my eyes quite enjoyed rambling from one roof to the next, and then glancing from one extremity of the town to the other;—they had been looking at hot dazzling objects all day—I thought I never should be able to raise them from the cool blue wet slates. However, as the light rapidly faded, the landscape itself soon became equally refreshing, for the dry parched corn-fields assumed a richer hue, the green crops seemed bending under dew, and the whole picture, hills, town, and all, appeared so newly painted, that the colours from Nature’s brush were too fresh to be dry. All of a sudden, majestically rolling up the valley, was seen a misty vapour, which, at last, reaching the houses, rolled from roof to roof, until it hovered over, or rather rested upon the whole town, and this was no sooner the case than the slates seemed all to have vanished!
In vain I looked for them, for the cloud exactly matching them in colour had so completely disguised them, that they formed nothing now but the base or foundation of the misty fabric which rested upon them. Instead of a blue town, Langen-Schwalbach now appeared to be a white one; for, the roofs no longer attracting attention, the shining walls burst into notice, and a serpentine line of glistening patches, nearly resembling a ridge of snow, clearly marked out the shape and limits of the town; but as, in this elevated country, there is little or no twilight, the features of the picture again rapidly faded, until even this white line was hardly to be seen; corn-fields could now scarcely be distinguished from green crops—all became dark—and the large forest on the south hills, as well as the small woods which are scattered on the heights, had so completely lost their colour, that they appeared to be immense black pits or holes. In a short time every thing beneath me was lost; and sitting on the ground, leaning against seven sheaves of corn piled up together, I was enjoying the sublime serenity, the mysterious uncertainty of the scene before me, when another very beautiful change took place!
I believe I have already told the reader that, beside myself, there were about 1200 strangers in the little village of Langen-Schwalbach. Of course every hof was fully inhabited, and, as soon as darkness prevailed, the effect produced by each house being suddenly and almost simultaneously lighted up, was really quite romantic. In every direction, sometimes at the top of one hof, then at the bottom of another, lights burst into existence—the eye attracted, eagerly flew from one to another, until, from the number which burst into life, it became quite impossible to attend to each. The bottom of the valley, like the dancing of fire-flies, was sparkling in the most irregular succession; till, in a short time, this fantastic confusion vanished, and every room (there being no shutters) having its light, Langen-Schwalbach was once again restored to view—each house, and every story of each house, being now clearly defined by a regular and very pleasing illumination; and while, seated in utter darkness, I gazed at the gay sparkling scene before me, I could not help feeling that, of all the beautiful contrasts in Nature, there can be no one more vivid than the sudden change between darkness and light. How weary we should be of eternal sunshine,—how gloomy would it be to grope through one’s life in utter darkness, and yet what loveliness do each of these, by contrast, impart to the other! On the heights above the village, how magnificent was the darkness after a hot sun-shining day; and then, again, how lovely was the twinkling even of tallow-candles, when they suddenly burst upon this darkness! Yet it is with these two ingredients that Nature works up all her pictures; and, as Paganini’s tunes all come out of two strings of cat-gut, and two of the entrails of a kitten, so do all the varieties which please our eyes proceed from a mixture in different proportions of light and shade; and, indeed, in the moral world, it is the chiaro-oscuro, the brightness and darkness of which alone form the happiness of our existence. What would prosperity be, if there was no such sorrow as adversity? what would health be if sickness did not exist? and what would be the smile of an approving conscience if there was not the torment of repentance writhing under guilt? But I will persecute the reader no longer with the reflections which occurred to me, as I sat in a wheat-field, gazing on the lights of Langen-Schwalbach. Good or bad, they managed to please me; however, after remaining in darkness, till it became much colder than was agreeable, I wandered back to my hof, entered my dormitory, and my head having there found its pillow, as I extinguished my candle, I mumbled to myself—“There goes one of the tallow stars of Langen-Schwalbach!—Sic transit gloria mundi!”
I was lying prostrate, still awake—and (there being no shutters to the window at the foot of the bed) I was looking at some oddly-shaped, tall, acute-angled, slated roofs, glistening in the light of the round full moon, which was hanging immediately above them. The scene was delightfully silent and serene. Occasionally I faintly heard a distant footstep approaching, until treading heavily under the window, its sound gradually diminished, till all again was silent. Sometimes a cloud passing slowly across the moon would veil the roofs in darkness; and then, again, they would suddenly burst upon the eye, in silvery light, shining brighter than ever. As somewhat fatigued I lay half enjoying this scene, and half dozing, I suddenly heard, apparently close to me, the scream of a woman, which really quite electrified me!
On listening it was repeated, when, jumping out of bed and opening the door, I heard it again proceeding from a room at the distant end of the passage; and such was the violence of its tone, that my impression was—“the lady’s room is on fire!”
There is something in the piercing shriek of a woman in distress which produces an irresistible effect on the featherless biped, called man; and, in rushing to her assistance, he performs no duty—he exercises no virtue—but merely obeys an instinctive impulse which has been benevolently imparted to him—not for his own good, but for the safety and protection of a weaker and a better sex.
But although this feeling exists so powerfully chez nous, yet it has not by nature been imparted to common-place garments, such as coats, black figured silk waistcoats, rusty knee-breeches, nor even to easy shoes, blue worsted stockings, or such like; and, therefore, while, by an irresistible attraction which I could not possibly counteract, obeying the mysterious impulse of my nature, I rushed along the passage, these base, unchivalric garments remained coldly dangling over the back of a chair: in short, I followed the laws of my nature—they, theirs.
With some difficulty, having succeeded in bursting open the door just as a fifth shriek was repeated, I rushed in, and there, sitting up in her bed—her soft arms most anxiously extended towards me—her countenance expressing an agony of fear—sat a young lady, by no means ill-favoured, and aged (as near as I could hastily calculate) about twenty-one!
Almost in hysterics, she began, in German, to tell a long incoherent story; and though, with calm, natural dignity, I did what I could to quiet her, the tears rushed into her eyes—she then almost in convulsions began, with her hands under the bed-clothes, to scratch her knees, then shrieked again; and I do confess that I was altogether at a loss to conceive what in the sacred name of virtue was the matter with the young lady, when, by her repeating several times the word “Ratten! Ratten!!” I at once comprehended that there were (or that the amiable young person fancied that there were)—rats in her bed!
The dog Billy, as well as many puppies of less name, would instantly, perhaps, have commenced a vigorous attack; rats, however, are reptiles I am not in the habit either of hunting or destroying.
The young lady’s aunt, an elderly personage, now appeared at the door, in her night-clothes, as yellow and as sallow as if she had just risen from the grave; peeping over her shoulder, stood our landlady’s blooming daughter in her bed-gown—Leonhard, the soncum multis aliis. What they could all have thought of the scene—what they could have thought of my strange, gaunt, unadorned appearance—what they could have thought of the niece’s screams—and what they would have thought had I deigned to tell them I had come to her bedside merely to catch rats—it was out of my power to divine: however, the fact was, I cared not a straw what they thought; but, seeing that my presence was not requisite, I gravely left the poor innocent sufferer to tell her own story. “Ratten! Ratten!!” was its theme; and, long before her fears subsided, my mind, as well as its body, were placidly intranced in sleep.
THE CROSS OF ST. JOHN OF JERUSALEM.Toan old man, one of the most delightful features in a German watering-place, is the ease with which he can associate, in the most friendly manner, with all his brother and sister water-bibbers, without the fatigue of speaking one single word.Almost every glass of water you get from the brunnen adds, at least, one to the list of your acquaintance. Merely touching a man’s elbow is sufficient to procure from him a look of goodfellowship, which, though it does not inconveniently grow into a bow, or even into a smile, is yet always afterwards displayed in his physiognomy whenever it meets yours. If, as you are stretching out your glass, you retire but half a stride, to allow a thirsting lady to step forward, you clearly see, whensoever you afterwards meet her, that the slight attention is indelibly recorded in your favour. Even running against a German produces, as it were by collision, a spark of kind feeling, which, like a star in the heavens, twinkles in his serene countenance whenever you behold it. Smile only once upon a group of children, and the little urchins bite their lips, vainly repressing their joy whenever afterwards you meet them.Shrouded in this delightful taciturnity, my list of acquaintances at Langen-Schwalbach daily increased, until I found myself on just the sort of amicable terms with almost everybody, which, to my present taste, is the most agreeable. In early life young people (if I recollect right) are never quite happy, unless they are either talking, or writing letters to their fellow-creatures. Whenever, even as strangers, they get together, everything that happens or passes seems to engender conversation—even when they have parted, there is no end to epistolary valedictions, and creation itself loses half its charms, unless the young beholder has some companion with whom the loveliness of the picture may be shared and enjoyed.But old age I find stiffens, first of all, the muscles of the tongue; indeed, as man gradually decays, it seems wisely provided by Nature that he should be willing to be dumb, before time obliges him to be deaf: in short the mind, however voraciously it might once have searched for food, at last instinctively prefers rumination, to seeking for more.By young people I shall be thought selfish, yet I do confess that I enjoy silence, because my own notions now suit me best; other people’s opinions, like their shoes, don't fit me, and however ill-constructed or old-fashioned my own may really be, yet use has made them easy: my sentiments, ugly as they may seem, don't pinch, and I therefore feel I had rather not exchange them; the one or two friends I have lost rank in my memory better than any I can ever hope to gain: in fact, I had rather not replace them, and at Langen-Schwalbach, as there was no necessity for a passing stranger like myself to set up a fine new acquaintance with people he would probably never see again, I considered that with my eyes and ears open, my tongue might harmlessly enjoy natural and delightful repose.But there is a perverseness in human nature, which it is quite out of my power to account for; and strange as it may sound, it is nevertheless too true, that the only person at Langen-Schwalbach I felt desirous to address, was the only individual who seemed to shun every human being.He was a withered, infirm man, who appeared to be tottering on the brink of his grave; and I had long remarked that, for some reason or other, he studiously avoided the brunnen until every person had left it. He spoke to no one—looked at no one—but as soon as he had swallowed off his dose, he retired to a lone bench, on which, with both hands leaning upon his ivory-handled cane, he was always to be seen sitting with his eyes sorrowfully fixed on the ground. Although the weather was, to every person but himself, oppressively hot, he was constantly muffled up in a thick cloak, and I think I must have passed him a hundred times before I detected, one exceedingly warm day, that underneath it there hung upon his left breast the Cross of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem. As, ages ago, I had myself passed many a hot summer on the parched, barren rock of Malta,—always, however, feeling much interested in the history of its banished knights,—I at once fully comprehended why the poor old gentleman’s body was so chilly, and why his heart felt so chilled with the world. By many slow and scientific approaches which it would be only tedious to detail, I at last managed, without driving him from his bench, most quietly to establish myself at his side, and then by coughing when he coughed,—sighing when he sighed,—and by other (I hope innocent) artifices, I at last ventured in asotto voceto mumble to him something about the distant island in which apparently all his youthful feelings lay buried. The words Valetta, Civitta Vecchia, Floriana, Cottonera, &c., as I pronounced them, produced, by a sort of galvanic influence, groans—ejaculations—short sentences, until at last he began to show me frankly without disguise the real colour of his mind. Poor man! like his eye it was jaundiced—“nullis medicabilis herbis!” I could not at all extract from him what rank, title, or situation he held in the ancient order, but I could too clearly see that he looked upon its extinction as the Persian would look upon the annihilation of the sun. Creation he fancied had been robbed of its colours,—Christianity he thought had lost its heart,—and he attributed every political ailment on the surface of the globe to the non-existence of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem.For several hours I patiently listened to his unhappy tale; for as lamentations of all sorts are better out of the human heart than in it, I felt that as the vein was open, my patient could not be encouraged to bleed too freely: without therefore once contradicting him, I allowed his feelings to flow uninterrupted, and by the time he had pumped himself dry, I was happy to observe that he was certainly much better for the operation. On leaving him, however, my own pent-up view of the case, and his, continued for the remainder of the day bubbling and quarrelling with each other in my mind. Therefore, to satisfy myself before I went to bed, I drew out in black and white the following sketch of what has always appeared to me to be a fair, impartial history of these—Knights of Malta.TheMediterranean forms a curious and beautiful feature in the picture of the commercial world. By dint of money and shipping we laboriously bring to England the produce of the most distant regions, but the commerce of the whole globe seems to have a natural or instinctive tendency to flow, almost of its own accord, into the Mediterranean Sea. Beginning with the great Atlantic Ocean, which connects the old world with the new, we know that, over that vast expanse, the prevailing wind is one which blows from America towards Europe; and, moreover, that the waters of the Atlantic are, without any apparent return, everlastingly flowing into the narrow straits of Gibraltar. When the produce of America, therefore, is shipped for the Mediterranean, in general terms it may be asserted that wind and tide are in its favour.Across the trackless deserts of Africa caravans from various parts of the interior are constantly toiling through the sand towards the waters of this inland sea. The traveller who goes up the Nile is doomed, we all know, to stem its torrent, but the produce of Egypt and the triple harvest of that luxuriant land is no sooner embarked, than of its own accord it glides majestically towards this favoured sea; and there is truth and nothing speculative in still further remarking, that this very harvest is absolutely produced by the slime or earth of Abyssinian and other most remote mountains, which by the laws of nature has calmly floated 1200 miles through a desert to top-dress or manure Egypt, that garden which eventually supplies so many of the inhabitants of the Mediterranean with corn.Again, the Red Sea is a passage apparently created to connect Europe with the great Eastern world; and as the power of steam gradually increases in its stride, it is evident that by this gulf, or natural canal, much of the produce of India eventually will easily flow into the Mediterranean Sea.Finally, it might likewise be shown, that much of the commerce of Asia Minor and Europe, either by great rivers or otherwise, naturally moves towards this central point; but besides these sources of external wealth, the Mediterranean, as we all know, is most romantically studded with an Archipelago and other beautiful islands, the inhabitants of which have the power not only of trading on a large scale with every quarter of the globe, but of carrying on in small open boats a sort of little village commerce of their own. Among the inhabitants of this sea are to be found at this moment the handsomest specimens of the human race; and if a person not satisfied with the present and future tenses of life, should prefer reflecting or rather ruminating on the past, with antiquarian rapture he may wander over these waters from Carthage to Egypt, Tyre, Sidon, Rhodes, Troy, Ephesus, Athens, Corinth, Argos, Syracuse, Rome, &c., until tired of his flight he may rest upon one of the ocean-beaten pillars of Hercules—and seated there, may most truly declare that the history of the Mediterranean is like the picture of its own waves beneath him, which one after another he sees to rise, break, and sink.In the history of this little sea, in what melancholy succession has nation and empire risen and fallen, flourished and decayed; and if the magnificent architectural ruins of these departed states mournfully offer to the traveller any political moral at all, is it not that homely one which the most common tomb-stone of our country churchyard preaches to the peasant who reads it?“As I am now, so you will be,Therefore prepare to follow me!”However, fully admitting the truth of the lesson which history and experience thus offer to us—admitting that no one can presume to declare which of the great Mediterranean powers is doomed to be the next to suffer—or what new point is next to burst into importance; yet if a man were forced to select a position which, in spite of fate or fortune, feuds or animosities, has been, and ever must be, the nucleus of commerce, he would find that in the Mediterranean Sea that point, as nearly as possible, would be the little island of Malta; and the political importance of this possession being now generally appreciated, it is curious rapidly to run over the string of little events which have gradually prepared, fortified, and delivered this valuable arsenal and fortress to the British flag.In the early ages of navigation, when men hardly dared to lose sight of the shore, ignorantly trembling if they were not absolutely hugging the very danger which we now most strenuously avoid, it may be easily conceived that a little barren island, scarcely twenty miles in length or twelve in breadth, was of little use or importance. It is true, that on its north coast there was a spit or narrow tongue of land (about a mile in length and a few hundred yards in breadth), on each side of which were a series of connected bays, now forming two of the most magnificent harbours in the world; but in the ages of which we speak this great outline was a nautical hieroglyphic which sailors could not decipher. Accustomed to hide their Lilliputian vessels and fleets in bays and creeks on the same petty scale as themselves, they did not comprehend or appreciate the importance of these immense Brobdignag recesses, nor did they admire the great depth of water which they contained; and as in ancient warfare, when warriors used javelins, arrows and stones, scalding each other with hot sand, the value of a position adapted to the present ranges of our shot and shells would not have been understood, in like manner was the importance of so large a harbour equally imperceptible; and that Malta could have had no very great reputation is proved by the fact, that it is even to this day among the learned a subject of dispute, whether it was upon this island, or upon Melita in the Adriatic, that St. Paul was shipwrecked. Now if either had been held in any particular estimation, the question of the shipwreck would not now be any subject of doubt.As navigators became more daring, and as their vessels, increasing in size, required more water and provisions, &c., Malta fell into the hands of various masters. At last, when Charles V. conquered Sicily and Naples, he offered it to those warriors of Christendom, those determined enemies of the Turks and Corsairs—the Knights Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem. This singular band of men, distinguished by their piebald vow of heroism and celibacy, had, after a most courageous resistance, been just overpowered by an army of 300,000 Saracens, who, under Solyman II., had driven them from the island of Rhodes, which had been occupied by their Order 213 years. Animated by the most noble blood of Europe which flowed in their veins—thirsting for revenge—yet homeless and destitute, it may easily be conceived that these brave, enthusiastic men would most readily have accepted almost any spot on which they could once again establish their busy hive: yet so little was the importance of Malta, even at that time, understood, so arid was its surface, and so burning was its rock, that, after minutely surveying it, their commissioners made a report to Charles V., which must ever be regarded as a most affecting document; for although the Knights of Malta were certainly in their day the “bravest of the brave,” although by that chivalric oath which bound them together, they had deliberately sworn “never to count the number of their enemies,” yet after the strong, proud position which they had held at Rhodes, it was only hard fate and stern necessity that could force them to seek refuge on a rock upon which there was scarcely soil enough to plant their standard. But though honour has been justly termed “an empty bubble,” yet to all men’s eyes its colours are so very beautiful, that they allure and encourage us to contend with difficulties which no other advocate could persuade us to encounter; and so it was that the Knights of Malta, seeing they had no alternative, sternly accepted the hot barren home that was offered to them, and in the very teeth, and before the beard of their barbarous enemy, these lions of the Cross landed and established themselves in their new den.When men have once made up their minds to stand against adversity, the scene generally brightens; for danger, contrary to the rules of drawing, is less in the foreground than in the perspective—difficulties of all sorts being magnified by the misty space which separates us from them; and accordingly the knights were no sooner established at Malta, than they began to find out the singular advantages it possessed.The whole island being a rock of freestone, which could be worked with peculiar facility, materials for building palaces and houses, suited to the dignity of the Order, existed everywhere on the spot; and it moreover became evident, that by merely quarrying out the rock, according to the rules of military science, they would not only obtain materials for building, but that, in fact, the more they excavated for their town, the deeper would be the ditch of its fortress. Animated by this double reward, the knights commenced their operations, or, in military language, they “broke ground;” and, without detailing how often the rising fortress was jealously attacked by their barbarous and relentless enemies, or how often its half-raised walls were victoriously cemented with the blood of Christians and of Turks, it will be sufficient merely to observe, that before the island had been in possession of the Order one century, it assumed very nearly the same astonishing appearance which it now affords—a picture and an example, proving to the whole world what can be done by courage, firmness, and perseverance.The narrow spit or tongue of barren rock which on the north side of the island separated the two great harbours, was scarped in every part, so as to render it inaccessible by sea, and on the isthmus, or only side on which it could be approached by land, demi-lunes, ravelins, counter-guards, bastions, and cavaliers, were seen towering one above another on so gigantic a scale, that, as a single datum, it may be stated, that the wall of the escarp is from 130 to 150 feet in height, being nearly five times the height of that of a regular fortress. On this narrow tongue of land, thus fortified, arose the city of Valetta, containing a palace for its Grand Master; and almost equally magnificent residences for its knights, the whole forming at this day one of the finest cities in the world. On every projecting point of the various beautiful bays contained in each of the two great harbours, separated from each other by the town of Valetta, forts were built flanking each other, yet all offering a concentrating fire upon any and every part of the port; and when a vessel labouring, heaving, pitching, and tossing, in a heavy gale of wind, now suddenly enters the great harbour of Malta, the sudden lull—the unexpected calm—the peaceful stillness which prevails on its deep unruffled surface, is most strangely contrasted in the mind of the stranger with the innumerable guns which, bristling in every direction from batteries one above another, seem fearfully to announce to him that he is in the chamber of death—in a slaughter-house from which there is no escape, and that, if he should dare to offer insult, although he has just escaped from the raging of the elements, the silence around him is that of the grave!It was from the city and harbour of Valetta, in the state above described,—it was from this proud citadel of Christianity, that the Knights of Malta continued for some time sallying forth to carry on their uncompromising hostility against the Turks and against the corsairs of Algiers and Tripoli; but the brilliant victories they gained, and the bloody losses they sustained, must be passed over, as it is already time to hurry their history to a close.The fact is, the Knights Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem gradually outlived the passions and objects which called them into existence, and their Order decayed for want of that nourishment which, during so many ages, it received from the sympathy, countenance, and applause of Christendom. In short, as mankind had advanced in civilization, its angry, savage, intolerant passions had gradually subsided, and thus the importance of the Order unavoidably faded with its utility. There was nothing premature in its decay—it had lived long enough. The holy, or rather unholy, war, with all its unchristian feelings, having long since subsided, it would have been inconsistent in the great nations of Europe to have professed a general disposition for peace, or to have entered into any treaty with the Turks, while at the same time they encouraged an Order which was bent on their extermination.The vow of celibacy, once the pride of the Order, became, in a more enlightened age, a mill-stone round its neck; it attracted ridicule—it created guilt—the sacred oath was broken; and although the head, the heart, and the pockets, of a soldier may be as light as the pure air he breathes, yet he can never truly be reported “fit for duty” if his conscience or his stomach be too heavily laden. In short, in two words, the Order of St. John of Jerusalem was no longer suited to the times; and Burke had already exclaimed—“The age of chivalry has fled!”In the year 1798, this Order, after having existed nearly 700 years, signed its own death-warrant, and in the face of Europe died ignominiously—“felo de se.” On the 9th of June, in that year, their island was invaded by the French; and although, as Napoleon justly remarked, to have excluded him it would have been only necessary to have shut the gates, Valetta was surrendered by treachery, the depravity of which will be best explained by the following extract from a statement made by the Maltese deputies:—“No one is ignorant that the plan of the invasion of Malta was projected in Paris, and confided to the principal knights of the Order resident at Malta. Letters in cyphers were incessantly passing and repassing, without however alarming the suspicions of the deceased Grand Master, or the Grand Master Hompesch.”As soon as the French were in possession of the city, harbours, and impregnable fortresses of Valetta, they began, as usual, to mutilate from the public buildings everything which bore the stamp of nobility, or recalled to mind the illustrious actions which had been performed. The arms of the Order, as well as those of the principal knights, were effaced from the palace and principal dwelling-houses; however, as the knights had sullied their own reputation, and had cast an indelible blot on their own escutcheons, they had but little right to complain that the image of their glory was thus insulted, when they themselves had been guilty of the murder of its spirit. The Order of St. John of Jerusalem being now worn out and decayed, its elements were scattered to the winds. The knight who were not in the French interest were ordered to quit the island in three days, and a disgraceful salary was accepted by the Grand Master Hompesch. Those knights who had favoured the French were permitted to remain, but, exposed to the rage of the Maltese, and unprotected by their false friends, some fled, some absolutely perished from want, but all were despised and hated.In the little theatre of Malta the scene is about to change, and the British soldier now marches upon its stage! On the 2d of September, 1798, the island was blockaded by the English, and the fortifications being absolutely impregnable, it became necessary to attempt the reduction of the place by famine.For two years most gallantly did the French garrison undergo the most horrid suffering and imprisonment—steadily and cheerfully did they submit to every possible privation—their stock of spirits, wine, meat, bread, &c., doled out in the smallest possible allowances, gradually diminished until all came to end. Sooner than strike, they then subsisted upon the flesh of their horses, mules, and asses; and when these also were consumed, and when they had eaten not only their cats, but the rats which infested the houses, drains, &c., in great numbers—when, from long-protracted famine, the lamp of life was absolutely expiring in the socket; in short, having, as one of their kings once most nobly exclaimed, “lost all but their honour,” these brave men—with nerves unshaken, with reputation unsullied, and with famine proudly painted in their lean, emaciated countenances—on the 4th of September, 1800, surrendered the place to that nation which Napoleon has since termed “the most powerful, the most constant, and the most generous of his enemies.”During the long-winded game of war which France and England lately played together, our country surely never made any better move than when she thus laid hold of Malta. Even if the island had been in the rude state in which it was delivered to the knights of Jerusalem, still, to a maritime power like England, such splendid harbours in the Mediterranean would have been a most valuable conquest; but when we not only appreciate their noble outline, but consider the gigantic and expensive manner in which this town has been impregnably fortified, as well as furnished with tanks, subterraneous stores, bomb-proof magazines, most magnificent barracks, palaces, &c., it is quite delightful to reflect on the series of events which have led to such a well-assorted alliance between two of the strongest harbours in the world and the first maritime power on the globe.If, like the French, we had taken the island from the knights, however degraded, worn out, and useless their Order might have become, yet Europe in general, and France in particular, might always have reproached us, and, for aught we know, our own consciences might have become a little tender on the subject. But the delightful truth is, that no power in Europe can breathe a word or a syllable against our possession of the island of Malta—it is an honour in open daylight we have fairly won, and I humbly say, long, very long, may we wear it!With respect to the Maltese themselves, I just at this moment recollect a trifling story which will, I think, delineate their character with tolerable accuracy.
Toan old man, one of the most delightful features in a German watering-place, is the ease with which he can associate, in the most friendly manner, with all his brother and sister water-bibbers, without the fatigue of speaking one single word.
Almost every glass of water you get from the brunnen adds, at least, one to the list of your acquaintance. Merely touching a man’s elbow is sufficient to procure from him a look of goodfellowship, which, though it does not inconveniently grow into a bow, or even into a smile, is yet always afterwards displayed in his physiognomy whenever it meets yours. If, as you are stretching out your glass, you retire but half a stride, to allow a thirsting lady to step forward, you clearly see, whensoever you afterwards meet her, that the slight attention is indelibly recorded in your favour. Even running against a German produces, as it were by collision, a spark of kind feeling, which, like a star in the heavens, twinkles in his serene countenance whenever you behold it. Smile only once upon a group of children, and the little urchins bite their lips, vainly repressing their joy whenever afterwards you meet them.
Shrouded in this delightful taciturnity, my list of acquaintances at Langen-Schwalbach daily increased, until I found myself on just the sort of amicable terms with almost everybody, which, to my present taste, is the most agreeable. In early life young people (if I recollect right) are never quite happy, unless they are either talking, or writing letters to their fellow-creatures. Whenever, even as strangers, they get together, everything that happens or passes seems to engender conversation—even when they have parted, there is no end to epistolary valedictions, and creation itself loses half its charms, unless the young beholder has some companion with whom the loveliness of the picture may be shared and enjoyed.
But old age I find stiffens, first of all, the muscles of the tongue; indeed, as man gradually decays, it seems wisely provided by Nature that he should be willing to be dumb, before time obliges him to be deaf: in short the mind, however voraciously it might once have searched for food, at last instinctively prefers rumination, to seeking for more.
By young people I shall be thought selfish, yet I do confess that I enjoy silence, because my own notions now suit me best; other people’s opinions, like their shoes, don't fit me, and however ill-constructed or old-fashioned my own may really be, yet use has made them easy: my sentiments, ugly as they may seem, don't pinch, and I therefore feel I had rather not exchange them; the one or two friends I have lost rank in my memory better than any I can ever hope to gain: in fact, I had rather not replace them, and at Langen-Schwalbach, as there was no necessity for a passing stranger like myself to set up a fine new acquaintance with people he would probably never see again, I considered that with my eyes and ears open, my tongue might harmlessly enjoy natural and delightful repose.
But there is a perverseness in human nature, which it is quite out of my power to account for; and strange as it may sound, it is nevertheless too true, that the only person at Langen-Schwalbach I felt desirous to address, was the only individual who seemed to shun every human being.
He was a withered, infirm man, who appeared to be tottering on the brink of his grave; and I had long remarked that, for some reason or other, he studiously avoided the brunnen until every person had left it. He spoke to no one—looked at no one—but as soon as he had swallowed off his dose, he retired to a lone bench, on which, with both hands leaning upon his ivory-handled cane, he was always to be seen sitting with his eyes sorrowfully fixed on the ground. Although the weather was, to every person but himself, oppressively hot, he was constantly muffled up in a thick cloak, and I think I must have passed him a hundred times before I detected, one exceedingly warm day, that underneath it there hung upon his left breast the Cross of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem. As, ages ago, I had myself passed many a hot summer on the parched, barren rock of Malta,—always, however, feeling much interested in the history of its banished knights,—I at once fully comprehended why the poor old gentleman’s body was so chilly, and why his heart felt so chilled with the world. By many slow and scientific approaches which it would be only tedious to detail, I at last managed, without driving him from his bench, most quietly to establish myself at his side, and then by coughing when he coughed,—sighing when he sighed,—and by other (I hope innocent) artifices, I at last ventured in asotto voceto mumble to him something about the distant island in which apparently all his youthful feelings lay buried. The words Valetta, Civitta Vecchia, Floriana, Cottonera, &c., as I pronounced them, produced, by a sort of galvanic influence, groans—ejaculations—short sentences, until at last he began to show me frankly without disguise the real colour of his mind. Poor man! like his eye it was jaundiced—“nullis medicabilis herbis!” I could not at all extract from him what rank, title, or situation he held in the ancient order, but I could too clearly see that he looked upon its extinction as the Persian would look upon the annihilation of the sun. Creation he fancied had been robbed of its colours,—Christianity he thought had lost its heart,—and he attributed every political ailment on the surface of the globe to the non-existence of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem.
For several hours I patiently listened to his unhappy tale; for as lamentations of all sorts are better out of the human heart than in it, I felt that as the vein was open, my patient could not be encouraged to bleed too freely: without therefore once contradicting him, I allowed his feelings to flow uninterrupted, and by the time he had pumped himself dry, I was happy to observe that he was certainly much better for the operation. On leaving him, however, my own pent-up view of the case, and his, continued for the remainder of the day bubbling and quarrelling with each other in my mind. Therefore, to satisfy myself before I went to bed, I drew out in black and white the following sketch of what has always appeared to me to be a fair, impartial history of these—Knights of Malta.
TheMediterranean forms a curious and beautiful feature in the picture of the commercial world. By dint of money and shipping we laboriously bring to England the produce of the most distant regions, but the commerce of the whole globe seems to have a natural or instinctive tendency to flow, almost of its own accord, into the Mediterranean Sea. Beginning with the great Atlantic Ocean, which connects the old world with the new, we know that, over that vast expanse, the prevailing wind is one which blows from America towards Europe; and, moreover, that the waters of the Atlantic are, without any apparent return, everlastingly flowing into the narrow straits of Gibraltar. When the produce of America, therefore, is shipped for the Mediterranean, in general terms it may be asserted that wind and tide are in its favour.
Across the trackless deserts of Africa caravans from various parts of the interior are constantly toiling through the sand towards the waters of this inland sea. The traveller who goes up the Nile is doomed, we all know, to stem its torrent, but the produce of Egypt and the triple harvest of that luxuriant land is no sooner embarked, than of its own accord it glides majestically towards this favoured sea; and there is truth and nothing speculative in still further remarking, that this very harvest is absolutely produced by the slime or earth of Abyssinian and other most remote mountains, which by the laws of nature has calmly floated 1200 miles through a desert to top-dress or manure Egypt, that garden which eventually supplies so many of the inhabitants of the Mediterranean with corn.
Again, the Red Sea is a passage apparently created to connect Europe with the great Eastern world; and as the power of steam gradually increases in its stride, it is evident that by this gulf, or natural canal, much of the produce of India eventually will easily flow into the Mediterranean Sea.
Finally, it might likewise be shown, that much of the commerce of Asia Minor and Europe, either by great rivers or otherwise, naturally moves towards this central point; but besides these sources of external wealth, the Mediterranean, as we all know, is most romantically studded with an Archipelago and other beautiful islands, the inhabitants of which have the power not only of trading on a large scale with every quarter of the globe, but of carrying on in small open boats a sort of little village commerce of their own. Among the inhabitants of this sea are to be found at this moment the handsomest specimens of the human race; and if a person not satisfied with the present and future tenses of life, should prefer reflecting or rather ruminating on the past, with antiquarian rapture he may wander over these waters from Carthage to Egypt, Tyre, Sidon, Rhodes, Troy, Ephesus, Athens, Corinth, Argos, Syracuse, Rome, &c., until tired of his flight he may rest upon one of the ocean-beaten pillars of Hercules—and seated there, may most truly declare that the history of the Mediterranean is like the picture of its own waves beneath him, which one after another he sees to rise, break, and sink.
In the history of this little sea, in what melancholy succession has nation and empire risen and fallen, flourished and decayed; and if the magnificent architectural ruins of these departed states mournfully offer to the traveller any political moral at all, is it not that homely one which the most common tomb-stone of our country churchyard preaches to the peasant who reads it?
“As I am now, so you will be,Therefore prepare to follow me!”
“As I am now, so you will be,Therefore prepare to follow me!”
“As I am now, so you will be,Therefore prepare to follow me!”
However, fully admitting the truth of the lesson which history and experience thus offer to us—admitting that no one can presume to declare which of the great Mediterranean powers is doomed to be the next to suffer—or what new point is next to burst into importance; yet if a man were forced to select a position which, in spite of fate or fortune, feuds or animosities, has been, and ever must be, the nucleus of commerce, he would find that in the Mediterranean Sea that point, as nearly as possible, would be the little island of Malta; and the political importance of this possession being now generally appreciated, it is curious rapidly to run over the string of little events which have gradually prepared, fortified, and delivered this valuable arsenal and fortress to the British flag.
In the early ages of navigation, when men hardly dared to lose sight of the shore, ignorantly trembling if they were not absolutely hugging the very danger which we now most strenuously avoid, it may be easily conceived that a little barren island, scarcely twenty miles in length or twelve in breadth, was of little use or importance. It is true, that on its north coast there was a spit or narrow tongue of land (about a mile in length and a few hundred yards in breadth), on each side of which were a series of connected bays, now forming two of the most magnificent harbours in the world; but in the ages of which we speak this great outline was a nautical hieroglyphic which sailors could not decipher. Accustomed to hide their Lilliputian vessels and fleets in bays and creeks on the same petty scale as themselves, they did not comprehend or appreciate the importance of these immense Brobdignag recesses, nor did they admire the great depth of water which they contained; and as in ancient warfare, when warriors used javelins, arrows and stones, scalding each other with hot sand, the value of a position adapted to the present ranges of our shot and shells would not have been understood, in like manner was the importance of so large a harbour equally imperceptible; and that Malta could have had no very great reputation is proved by the fact, that it is even to this day among the learned a subject of dispute, whether it was upon this island, or upon Melita in the Adriatic, that St. Paul was shipwrecked. Now if either had been held in any particular estimation, the question of the shipwreck would not now be any subject of doubt.
As navigators became more daring, and as their vessels, increasing in size, required more water and provisions, &c., Malta fell into the hands of various masters. At last, when Charles V. conquered Sicily and Naples, he offered it to those warriors of Christendom, those determined enemies of the Turks and Corsairs—the Knights Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem. This singular band of men, distinguished by their piebald vow of heroism and celibacy, had, after a most courageous resistance, been just overpowered by an army of 300,000 Saracens, who, under Solyman II., had driven them from the island of Rhodes, which had been occupied by their Order 213 years. Animated by the most noble blood of Europe which flowed in their veins—thirsting for revenge—yet homeless and destitute, it may easily be conceived that these brave, enthusiastic men would most readily have accepted almost any spot on which they could once again establish their busy hive: yet so little was the importance of Malta, even at that time, understood, so arid was its surface, and so burning was its rock, that, after minutely surveying it, their commissioners made a report to Charles V., which must ever be regarded as a most affecting document; for although the Knights of Malta were certainly in their day the “bravest of the brave,” although by that chivalric oath which bound them together, they had deliberately sworn “never to count the number of their enemies,” yet after the strong, proud position which they had held at Rhodes, it was only hard fate and stern necessity that could force them to seek refuge on a rock upon which there was scarcely soil enough to plant their standard. But though honour has been justly termed “an empty bubble,” yet to all men’s eyes its colours are so very beautiful, that they allure and encourage us to contend with difficulties which no other advocate could persuade us to encounter; and so it was that the Knights of Malta, seeing they had no alternative, sternly accepted the hot barren home that was offered to them, and in the very teeth, and before the beard of their barbarous enemy, these lions of the Cross landed and established themselves in their new den.
When men have once made up their minds to stand against adversity, the scene generally brightens; for danger, contrary to the rules of drawing, is less in the foreground than in the perspective—difficulties of all sorts being magnified by the misty space which separates us from them; and accordingly the knights were no sooner established at Malta, than they began to find out the singular advantages it possessed.
The whole island being a rock of freestone, which could be worked with peculiar facility, materials for building palaces and houses, suited to the dignity of the Order, existed everywhere on the spot; and it moreover became evident, that by merely quarrying out the rock, according to the rules of military science, they would not only obtain materials for building, but that, in fact, the more they excavated for their town, the deeper would be the ditch of its fortress. Animated by this double reward, the knights commenced their operations, or, in military language, they “broke ground;” and, without detailing how often the rising fortress was jealously attacked by their barbarous and relentless enemies, or how often its half-raised walls were victoriously cemented with the blood of Christians and of Turks, it will be sufficient merely to observe, that before the island had been in possession of the Order one century, it assumed very nearly the same astonishing appearance which it now affords—a picture and an example, proving to the whole world what can be done by courage, firmness, and perseverance.
The narrow spit or tongue of barren rock which on the north side of the island separated the two great harbours, was scarped in every part, so as to render it inaccessible by sea, and on the isthmus, or only side on which it could be approached by land, demi-lunes, ravelins, counter-guards, bastions, and cavaliers, were seen towering one above another on so gigantic a scale, that, as a single datum, it may be stated, that the wall of the escarp is from 130 to 150 feet in height, being nearly five times the height of that of a regular fortress. On this narrow tongue of land, thus fortified, arose the city of Valetta, containing a palace for its Grand Master; and almost equally magnificent residences for its knights, the whole forming at this day one of the finest cities in the world. On every projecting point of the various beautiful bays contained in each of the two great harbours, separated from each other by the town of Valetta, forts were built flanking each other, yet all offering a concentrating fire upon any and every part of the port; and when a vessel labouring, heaving, pitching, and tossing, in a heavy gale of wind, now suddenly enters the great harbour of Malta, the sudden lull—the unexpected calm—the peaceful stillness which prevails on its deep unruffled surface, is most strangely contrasted in the mind of the stranger with the innumerable guns which, bristling in every direction from batteries one above another, seem fearfully to announce to him that he is in the chamber of death—in a slaughter-house from which there is no escape, and that, if he should dare to offer insult, although he has just escaped from the raging of the elements, the silence around him is that of the grave!
It was from the city and harbour of Valetta, in the state above described,—it was from this proud citadel of Christianity, that the Knights of Malta continued for some time sallying forth to carry on their uncompromising hostility against the Turks and against the corsairs of Algiers and Tripoli; but the brilliant victories they gained, and the bloody losses they sustained, must be passed over, as it is already time to hurry their history to a close.
The fact is, the Knights Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem gradually outlived the passions and objects which called them into existence, and their Order decayed for want of that nourishment which, during so many ages, it received from the sympathy, countenance, and applause of Christendom. In short, as mankind had advanced in civilization, its angry, savage, intolerant passions had gradually subsided, and thus the importance of the Order unavoidably faded with its utility. There was nothing premature in its decay—it had lived long enough. The holy, or rather unholy, war, with all its unchristian feelings, having long since subsided, it would have been inconsistent in the great nations of Europe to have professed a general disposition for peace, or to have entered into any treaty with the Turks, while at the same time they encouraged an Order which was bent on their extermination.
The vow of celibacy, once the pride of the Order, became, in a more enlightened age, a mill-stone round its neck; it attracted ridicule—it created guilt—the sacred oath was broken; and although the head, the heart, and the pockets, of a soldier may be as light as the pure air he breathes, yet he can never truly be reported “fit for duty” if his conscience or his stomach be too heavily laden. In short, in two words, the Order of St. John of Jerusalem was no longer suited to the times; and Burke had already exclaimed—“The age of chivalry has fled!”
In the year 1798, this Order, after having existed nearly 700 years, signed its own death-warrant, and in the face of Europe died ignominiously—“felo de se.” On the 9th of June, in that year, their island was invaded by the French; and although, as Napoleon justly remarked, to have excluded him it would have been only necessary to have shut the gates, Valetta was surrendered by treachery, the depravity of which will be best explained by the following extract from a statement made by the Maltese deputies:—“No one is ignorant that the plan of the invasion of Malta was projected in Paris, and confided to the principal knights of the Order resident at Malta. Letters in cyphers were incessantly passing and repassing, without however alarming the suspicions of the deceased Grand Master, or the Grand Master Hompesch.”
As soon as the French were in possession of the city, harbours, and impregnable fortresses of Valetta, they began, as usual, to mutilate from the public buildings everything which bore the stamp of nobility, or recalled to mind the illustrious actions which had been performed. The arms of the Order, as well as those of the principal knights, were effaced from the palace and principal dwelling-houses; however, as the knights had sullied their own reputation, and had cast an indelible blot on their own escutcheons, they had but little right to complain that the image of their glory was thus insulted, when they themselves had been guilty of the murder of its spirit. The Order of St. John of Jerusalem being now worn out and decayed, its elements were scattered to the winds. The knight who were not in the French interest were ordered to quit the island in three days, and a disgraceful salary was accepted by the Grand Master Hompesch. Those knights who had favoured the French were permitted to remain, but, exposed to the rage of the Maltese, and unprotected by their false friends, some fled, some absolutely perished from want, but all were despised and hated.
In the little theatre of Malta the scene is about to change, and the British soldier now marches upon its stage! On the 2d of September, 1798, the island was blockaded by the English, and the fortifications being absolutely impregnable, it became necessary to attempt the reduction of the place by famine.
For two years most gallantly did the French garrison undergo the most horrid suffering and imprisonment—steadily and cheerfully did they submit to every possible privation—their stock of spirits, wine, meat, bread, &c., doled out in the smallest possible allowances, gradually diminished until all came to end. Sooner than strike, they then subsisted upon the flesh of their horses, mules, and asses; and when these also were consumed, and when they had eaten not only their cats, but the rats which infested the houses, drains, &c., in great numbers—when, from long-protracted famine, the lamp of life was absolutely expiring in the socket; in short, having, as one of their kings once most nobly exclaimed, “lost all but their honour,” these brave men—with nerves unshaken, with reputation unsullied, and with famine proudly painted in their lean, emaciated countenances—on the 4th of September, 1800, surrendered the place to that nation which Napoleon has since termed “the most powerful, the most constant, and the most generous of his enemies.”
During the long-winded game of war which France and England lately played together, our country surely never made any better move than when she thus laid hold of Malta. Even if the island had been in the rude state in which it was delivered to the knights of Jerusalem, still, to a maritime power like England, such splendid harbours in the Mediterranean would have been a most valuable conquest; but when we not only appreciate their noble outline, but consider the gigantic and expensive manner in which this town has been impregnably fortified, as well as furnished with tanks, subterraneous stores, bomb-proof magazines, most magnificent barracks, palaces, &c., it is quite delightful to reflect on the series of events which have led to such a well-assorted alliance between two of the strongest harbours in the world and the first maritime power on the globe.
If, like the French, we had taken the island from the knights, however degraded, worn out, and useless their Order might have become, yet Europe in general, and France in particular, might always have reproached us, and, for aught we know, our own consciences might have become a little tender on the subject. But the delightful truth is, that no power in Europe can breathe a word or a syllable against our possession of the island of Malta—it is an honour in open daylight we have fairly won, and I humbly say, long, very long, may we wear it!
With respect to the Maltese themselves, I just at this moment recollect a trifling story which will, I think, delineate their character with tolerable accuracy.