VALE AND CITY.

XXXI.

The Vale.

If it were possible for me again to travel, gladly should I find myself with you, my dear friend, in Prague-a town that offers so much to those who see only with their eyes, and are satisfied to know just what the present day is, but, at the same time, offering so much more to those who see with their memory, and can bring the past to bear upon the present. With the help of some learned old German-for we dare not cope with the Bohemian tonguewe might make every stone of the old town tell us a tale of bygone times, on which we could make our English comments as we enjoyed the pleasant walks of which you speak. With such food for reflection, Campbell's fine lines on one sad act in the great drama of Prague's history would seem to us quite too modern; yet to some of the present generation they are already as antiquated as is that piece of music called "The Battle of Prague," which our grandmothers used to play.

I am pleased that you have visited a town of such great historic interest, and since the receipt of your letter, I have been thinking of one, the historic interest connected with which I hold to be as great as-nay, I should be disposed to say greater than that of Prague. I mean Nuremberg. The characteristics of the inhabitants of the two towns must have always been as different as are the buildings and all the externals of the two places. The one I now know from that valuable work, the guide-book to which you referred me, the other from actual residence in it, and it has lately been very sadly and very painfully recalled to my thoughts.

But first let me say that, however much we feel for the Bohemians at the bloody and inexorable fashion in which the Reformation was stamped out in Prague, we are disposed to believe our sympathy with the Nuremberg reformers more honourable to our humanity. They came out of the terrible trials of the times with less blood on their hands than the people of the former town. They were very honest and fearless, too, except at the moment when Charles V. and the Duke of Alva were their guests-two guests very sufficient to make men swerve a little when called on boldly to declare on whose side they were. God's or the king's? Luther's or Alva's? But Gustavus Adolphus set all right again with the good Nurembergers, and they did their duty to him honestly.

And now to my little story-a too true tale connected with the old town. I had an introduction when there to a professor and his wife, a genuine German pair, who lived for books, and music, and social enjoyments, and for a yearly tour beyond the bounds of their own country, after it had been thoroughly explored. They had no children, and could thus spend their days, after the professor's duties in teaching Greek and Latin were fulfilled, as they chose, and could dispose of their holidays without any disturbance of family arrangements. As to their social enjoyments, which I have named, they would have been despised by a Londoner or a Parisian in search of what he might call enjoyment. In the quaint, old-fashioned house in which they lived, it was their pleasure to welcome their friends at eight in the evening. The house, though always one and the same, would to English visitors have two aspects, according to the eyes that saw it. If the eyes were those of an artist it would appear a perfect gem, when, having ascended some flights of stairs, he found himself on a wooden balcony, with doors opening into the rooms, and from which he caught glimpses of most picturesque corners of streets and ramparts, and of some of the varieties of antique towers on them. "Sehr freundlich," the professor's wife would say, when a visitor was pleased with this view-a friendly, a home-like view; it wore the face of an old friend, an old home, even to a stranger. But suppose that, instead of the artist's eyes, the stranger had brought with him-and some Englishmen do that in coming abroad-a housemaid's eyes, then indeed the aspect of things would have been very different. Where the picturesque lay would not have been discovered; the staircase would have been called dingy, the balcony thought unsteady, and there could in that case be no comfort in looking at old towers from it.

Now, if you be a person with such eyes, I shall not invite you into the professor's rooms; for if you could not perceive the picturesque outside them, you would not be worthy of the comfort inside them. And comfort there was-real comfort of the true German kind. The Frau Professorinn, his excellent, admirable, poetic wife, was also a perfect housekeeper, and everything in her apartments was clean, orderly, and tasteful. Come with me in fancy into their common reception-room on an autumnal evening, when she has just begun, on her return from the tour which they took every September and October, to have their stove heated. Come! does not that look comfortable? Does it not feel comfortable? The four walls are lined with shelves all filled with books, from the Greek classics, which the professor loves, down to Mrs. Hemans's poems in English, which his wife loves to translate into sweet German rhymes. On the long table down the centre of the room are dozens of large albums, with views of the most inteSept.-VOL. CXLVII. NO. DXCVII.

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resting places in Europe, and not a view about which they cannot tell you, from their actual observation and knowledge, facts in history, art, and literature, that are beyond the ken of those who see only through the eyes of guide-books. After hearing what they had to tell concerning their travels, you and I would candidly say to each other, "How meagrely do we know and understand what we have seen out of our own country."

You remain in this German room with me, and whilst your mind is genially awakened by your host and hostess, you feelthough you have a have a prejudice against stoves-that there is something genial, too, in the diffused warmth, so unlike that of our fires, that heat only one side of an apartment, and leave the other cold. It is evening, and guests come in. A few professors, their pleasing, unpretending wives, a few lively students, some blooming young girls. They all sit in due order at the table; we, as strangers, on the right and left of our host at its head. Óur hostess and this is very starling to our English ideas-takes no seat, but directs and even assists her maid-servant in attending on the company with tea and the other substantial viands, for it may be called a thé dinatoir. When it is over, but not until then, does the Frau Professorinn take her place at her own table, and then modestly show that she has powers fitting her to take the lead in the conversation were she so minded. But she is not. She leaves that to her good-natured husband, and he leaves it to any one willing to talk. All are willing to do so. None, however, hold forth-none harangue; each has his turn to say something. Talk is not all. There is a great deal of laughing. There are games of different kinds ending in forfeits, and extemporised verses. So midnight comes, bringing the large punch-bowl, with its ladle and glasses; many curious toasts are drunk in German, English, and French. It is just as well that the Bavarian police should not know what they were. The Fatherland! was first; then Freedom! -Freedom for all lands-touching of glasses, and good-night!

You go with me to my abode, and I impress on you the truth that the cultivation of mind, the tastes, the enjoyments, the abundant hospitality of our host and hostess, which are beyond all money value, are yet obtained for less than three hundred pounds sterling a year. I add this, that there must be something essentially good in the German character when such happiness as that which I have described to you can be tasted in despite of all the petty oppressions of the different governments of the country, all ending in the one grand oppression that any man can at any time be called on to be a soldier, and fight in any cause of which his rulers may choose to make a casus belli.

But now I have been led far from that of which I thought when I began to speak to you of Nuremberg. The dear, friendly host

and hostess to whom I have in fancy presented you, shall be known no more in their pleasant rooms. Their former guests in the old town look sorrowfully at the windows of their house, even bearded men dash away a tear as they pass by. Sad, sad news has reached me! My mind has been full of it. Your letter from Prague did interest me much for the moment, but the other town afterwards came back to me, not repeating in memory all that is so quaint and curious in it, but solely bringing the remembrance of the two persons whom I had known there and valued so much.

Still that room which I have tried to describe to you, with all its gaiety, hospitality, brightness, warmth, and comfort, floats before me like something seen vividly, though in a dream. A dream? Why a dream? Because no sooner is it perceived than it fades away into that which one would fain persuade oneself is a dream, yet it is a dreadful reality. Far away in a lonely village in Spain, in a wretched room, in a wretched inn, disregarded by the ignorant and bigoted people near them, I see my two friends. The wife is expiring on a miserable pallet, and the husband, kneeling by her side, is frantic with despair. She dies, he falls down in convulsions, and soon after his eyes, too, are closed in death. In that Spanish village they were buried; no one seemed disposed to tell how, or when, or where. Now you know what tidings I have received from Nuremberg, and why, out of the abundance of the heart, I have spoken of it and of the sad news to you.

It seems that the professor and his wife, wishing to travel on ground entirely new to them, had chosen Spain for their last autumn tour. Their last tour it was, in every sense. When the time came for their return to their home, and when they neither appeared nor sent any letters, their anxious relatives set inquiries on foot. They were traced back from the last place whence a letter had been received, and their melancholy fate was ascertained. Few events have ever struck me as being more sorrowful, although the words of Scripture do come to my mind, "They were lovely in their lives, and in their death they were not divided." We are prone to apportion our regret for the death of any certain person by the measure we have formed of his enjoyment of life. It is thus, perhaps, that I have been led to dwell on the loss of this present existence, in the case of these German friends of mine, as something to be peculiarly regretted for them-as if it could not be a gain to those who tasted and appreciated so thoroughly all the honest pleasures of life-those of the heart and of the intellect -and that, too, with a humility and a simplicity which kept from them all the troubles of pride, ambition, and rivalry. It almost seems to me as if they had lost as much in being taken from their friends, as their friends lose in being deprived of them. But I am

far from the old town; it is not probable that I shall ever see it again, and I may speculate in this way. It will not be so with those there, who miss the accustomed welcome to the genial home. They will feel that their loss is great-will feel it acutely—yet will acknowledge that to the good death can only be a gain. But the death was so sad! I repeat to myself.

Pardon me, dear friend, that I end thus sadly.

Adieu !

XXXII.

The City, Berlin.

It was not necessary that you should ask to be pardoned for your sad letter. In return for mine, the best compliment you could pay me, was to give me your feelings and your thoughts as they arose. You had made me wish to see Nuremberg before, and now you have added a new and melancholy interest to it. I should in fancy see you there, dear friend, and I should also see your two friends. But it is in fancy only that I shall see the old town. We have left it far behind us, and shall not turn back to make a pilgrimage to it. Before beginning, however, to speak of our proceedings, let me say a word of comfort to you on that loss which you regret so much, the tragical manner in which it occurred sharpening your regret. I would say, think how much such persons as those you portrayed are spared in dying before they have had any experience of the evils of old age. To them, with their active, hospitable, and intellectual course of life, the change from their usual habits that age must have caused them, would have been peculiarly painful. Be satisfied that they have been saved such a trial. A feminine and worldly kind of consolation, you will say, perhaps with a little contempt. If so, I remind you that the Greeks said, "Whom the gods love dies young," and truly, what is there in age to tempt us to wish for it?

Enough, then! I leave my question unanswered, leave it to you to answer, and begin about our present place, the great city of Berlin. Great it is, though small in comparison with London, or even with Paris. It may be destined to equal them, yet I can scarcely believe in that destiny. Not that I think there is anything wanting to the Prussian character of talent or vigour which should hinder them from accomplishing whatever Englishmen or Frenchmen have done in their respective capitals. But I think those possess natural advantages in their site which Berlin has not. As it is, it is a handsome city, and there are few places in which so much of improvement and adornment have taken place within a century a century, too, of such exciting reverses in war.