n
extraordinary indulgence.

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

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

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

_Punch, du edler trank der Britten_!
Punch,