r of ungallant things, which are not
worth translating.

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

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

CHAPTER VII.

HAMBURG TO LUBECK.

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