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On a bright afternoon in June, Lackland and
myself stopped at Einbeck to change horses. This is
the next post town to Göttingen.

A straggling student that happened to be lounging
about the hotel, informed us that Rabenmark
and Co., had passed through a few days before on
their way to the university.

From Einbeck to Göttingen, the road lies through
a valley enclosed by hills, which are picturesque
enough, and which from the advanced guard of the
grand chain of the Hartz, which rise on the right
hand to a considerable height, with the ghost-beloved
Brocken, towering above the whole. As we
drew near our journey's end, we passed on the left
the desolate and weather-beaten remains of Hardenberg
castle, and a little farther on the ruined and
romantic towers of Castle Plesse, which, overgrown
with weeds and briars, and embedded and entangled
in luxuriant foliage, looked down upon us from
a neighbouring hill. Half an hour afterwards, we
found ourselves at the Weender gate of Göttingen.
The corporal of the guard marched out, twirled his

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moustachios, demanded our passports, (which were
in English,) put on a pair of iron spectacles, and
commenced reading them very gravely. As I observed
however that he held them upside-down in
the most unsuspecting manner, I supposed he would
find interpretation necessary. After a few moments,
however, he returned them to us, observing with a
polite bow, that they were perfectly in order. We
begged his acceptance of a gulden, which he received
with another pull at his moustachios, and another
polite bow; and then the postillion blew a shrill blast
on his bugle, and rattled us into the town as fast as
his rats of horses could carry us.

Göttingen is rather a well built and handsome
looking town, with a decided look of the Middle
Ages about it. Although the college is new, the
town is ancient, and like the rest of the German
university towns, has nothing external, with the
exception of a plain-looking building in brick for
the library, and one or two others for natural collections,
to remind you that you are at the seat of an
institution for education. The professors lecture,
each on his own account, at his own house, of
which the basement floor is generally made use of
as an auditorium. The town is walled in, like
most of the continental cities of that date, although
the ramparts, planted with linden-trees, have since
been converted into a pleasant promenade, which
reaches quite round the town, and is furnished with
a gate and guard at the end of each principal avenue.
It is this careful fortification, combined with

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the nine-story houses, and the narrow streets,
which imparts the compact, secure look peculiar to
all the German towns. The effect is forcibly to remind
you of the days when the inhabitants were
huddled snugly together, like sheep in a sheep-cote,
and locked up safe from the wolfish attacks of the
gentlemen highwaymen, the ruins of whose castles
frown down from the neighbouring hills.

The houses are generally tall and gaunt, consisting
of a skeleton of frame-work, filled in with brick,
with the original rafters, embrowned by time, projecting
like ribs through the yellowish stucco, which covers
the surface. They are full of little windows,
which are filled with little panes, and as they are
built to save room, one upon another, and consequently
rise generally to eight or nine stories, the
inhabitants invariably live as it were in layers.
Hence it is not uncommon, to find a professor occupying
the two lower stories or strata, a tailor above
the professor, a student upon the tailor, a beer seller
conveniently upon the student, a washerwoman
upon the beer-merchant, and perhaps a poet upon
the top; a pyramid with a poet for its apex, and a
professor for the base.

The solid and permanent look of all these edifices,
in which, from the composite and varying style
of architecture, you might read the history of half a
dozen centuries in a single house, and which looked
as if built before the memory of man, and like to
last for ever, reminded me, by the association of
contrast, of the straggling towns and villages of

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America, where the houses are wooden boxes, worn
out and renewed every fifty years; where the cities
seem only temporary encampments, and where,
till people learn to build for the future as well as the
present, there will be no history, except in pen and
ink, of the changing centuries in the country.

As I passed up the street, I saw on the lower
story of a sombre-looking house, the whole legend
of Samson and Delilah rudely carved in the brown
free-stone, which formed the abutments of the house
opposite; a fantastic sign over a portentous shop
with an awning ostentatiously extended over the
side walk, announced the café and ice-shop: overhead,
from the gutters of each of the red-tiled roofs,
were thrust into mid-air the grim heads of dragons
with long twisted necks, portentous teeth, and goggle
eyes, serving, as I learned the first rainy day,
the peaceful purpose of a water spout; while on the
side-walks, and at every turn, I saw enough to convince
me I was in an university town, although
there were none of the usual architectural indications.
As we passed the old gothic church of St.
Nicholas, I observed through the open windows of
the next house, a party of students smoking, and
playing billiards, and I recognized some of the faces
of my Leipzig acquaintance. In the street were
plenty of others of all varieties. Some, with plain
caps and clothes, and a meek demeanour, sneaked
quietly through the streets, with portfolios under
their arms. I observed the care with which they
turned out to the left, and avoided collision with

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every one they met. These were camels “or studious
students” returning from lecture — others
swaggered along the side-walk, turning out for no
one, with clubs in their hands, and bull-dogs at
their heels — these were dressed in marvellously fine
caps, and polonaise coats, covered with cords and
tassels, and invariably had pipes in their mouths,
and were fitted out with the proper allowance of
spurs and moustachios. These were “Renomists,”
who were always ready for a row.

At almost every corner of the street was to be
seen a solitary individual of this latter class, in a
ferocious fencing attitude, brandishing his club in
the air, and cutting quart and tierce in the most
alarming manner, till you were reminded of the
truculent Gregory's advice to his companion; “Remember
thy swashing blow.”

All along the street, I saw, on looking up, the
heads and shoulders of students projecting from
every window. They were arrayed in tawdry
smoking caps, and heterogeneous-looking dressing
gowns with the long pipes and flash tassels depending
from their mouths. At his master's side, and
looking out of the same window, I observed, in
many instances, a grave and philosophical-looking
poodle, with equally grim moustachios, his head
reposing contemplatively on his fore-paws, and engaged
apparently, like his master, in ogling the
ponderous housemaids who were drawing water
from the street pumps.

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We passed through the market square, with its
antique fountain in the midst, and filled with an
admirable collection of old women, some washing
clothes, and some selling cherries, and turned at last
into the Nagler Strasse. This was a narrow street,
with tall, rickety houses of various shapes and sizes,
arranged on each side, in irregular rows; while the
gaunt gable-ended edifices, sideling up to each other
in one place till the opposite side nearly touched,
and at another retreating awkwarly back as if
ashamed to show their faces, gave to the whole
much the appearance of a country dance by unskilful
performers. Suddenly the postillion drove into a
dark, yawning doorway, which gaped into the street
like a dragon's mouth, and drew up at the doorstep
of the “King of Prussia.” The house bell
jingled—the dogs barked—two waiters let down
the steps, a third seized us by the legs, and nearly
pulled us out of the carriage in the excess of their
officiousness; while the landlord made his appearance
cap in hand on the threshold, and after saluting
us in Latin, Polish, French, and English, at
last informed us in plain German, which was the
only language he really knew, that he was very
glad to have the honour of “recommending himself
to us.”

We paid our “brother-in-law,” as you must always
call the postillion in Germany, a magnificent
drinkgeld, and then ordered dinner.

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