Valencienne, with sashes all to match, turquoise
bracelets and lockets, and that the happy couple
left town to spend their honeymoon at
Something castle, somewhere.

They do these things far better in Germany.
At hap-hazard we have taken up various
German papers of the month of October, of the
year 1866. Here we have not only solid
announcements of fact, but anticipations of the
future, and ebullitions of love appear with large
notes of exclamation at six kreutzers a line!
Social advertisements amongst our Teutonic
neighbours form a special branch of literature.
A general opinion prevails in many quarters
that Germans are a heavy phlegmatical set of
men, addicted to copious chopins of beer, bad
tobacco, philosophy, and hot stoves, intermixed
with a smack of Mephistophelean or
Machiavellian lore, dreamers, believers in fairies and
in the black art, in hobgoblins, giants, and dwarfs,
yet, at the same time, steady quiet Philisters,
with a practical eye to business. Whoever has
read Faust, or Don Carlos, the legends of the
Hartz Mountains, the tales of the Brothers
Grimm, the adventures of the famous Baron
Munchausen, the legends of the Rhine, the
Ballads of Uhland, the romantic Life of Bürger,
the author of Leonora, or the deeper writings
of Jean Paul Richter, so deep that, as a
German seriously informed us, very few Germans
even can understand them—a truism we quite
appreciate after trying to make out Hesperus—
or the philosophical works of Schelling or
Strauss, cannot for a moment entertain such a
notion as an idiosyncratic idea of the German
mind.

Romance, poetry, and love are to be found in
rich strata in the mental soil of German youth.
It was romantic enthusiasm that placed the
assassin's dagger in the hand of Sand, as it did
a pistol recently in the hand of young Blind; it
was the same feeling which induced young
German fräuleins to keep as heirlooms handkerchiefs
steeped in the blood of the murderer of
Kotzebue, when his head fell on the scaffold at
Heidelberg. The Sorrows of Werther, the idyl
of Herrman and Dorothea, The Artists of
Schiller—one of the noblest poems ever penned
—or the lays of the lamented Platen, all denote
the poetic soul of the beer-drinking German,
and the advertisements before us tell us in
unmistakable language that love is one of the
essential elements in his character.

Engagements (Verlobungen), births,
marriages, deaths, lie spread before us whilst we
are writing these lines, in the most wonderful
confusion. The styles vary from the high tenor
Wachtel note of delight to the non più mesta
of Alboni and the deeper tones of Lablache.
Youthful aspirations of young "verlobte," calm
expressions of consummated marriage, joyful
ebullitions at the birth of sound and healthy
children, flowery proposals of marriage, and
pathetic announcements of the death of a relative
or of a friend, denote the various chords
which, when touched, vibrate in the German
heart at the command of hope, joy, and grief.

But we are digressing. In duty bound, we
we will begin with the "Verlobte." Who has
not seen, on a Rhine steamer, a young couple,
regardless of all around them, sitting hand in
hand for hours, generally near the prow, the
castles of the old Rhine robbers and the
cabbage-like-looking vineyards as it were gliding
past them? The Seven Mountains, Rolands Eck,
the Mouse Tower, have no charm for them; they
are verlobt! The great fact has been announced
to the public in the columns of the Cologne
Gazette or of the Allgemeine Zeitung. No
one thinks it odd that they should sit hand in
hand for a whole summer's day. The Rhine
makes a curve; the waters run rapid; they are
passing the Lorey Lei. "Thou, my beloved (du
meine geliebte)," says the enamoured youth,
"art the siren that has attracted dein dich
liebender Fritz! Shall I be drowned in the
matrimonial waves that dash against the rock of
my destiny? or shall I not find thee like Lora
Lei, and take thee to these loving arms, thy
hair and fair arms decked with coral?" "We
are one soul," is the reply. "My Ich is thy Ich.
Ich bin jetzt (I am now) what thou art. We
are the same Ich. Death alone can separate
us!" The advertisements which announce this
happy Mahomet-coffin-like-intermediate-
terrestrial-celestial existence are not quite so romantic.
First, they have to be paid for in good
silver groschen, and become of earth—earthy.

For the edification of our readers, we subjoin
a few specimens. We vouch for the fidelity of
translation.

"We have the honour to announce, say Otto
Scholten and Frau, that our daughter Emma is
verlobt with Mr. Apothecary Walther, of
Munertshagen, and we hope that relations and
friends will take this announcement instead of a
special communication." In fact—no cards.

Pfarrer (rector) Achenbach, of Crombach,
announces to his friends and relations that his
daughter Bertha is verlobt (anglicè, engaged)
to Herr Friedrich Wilh. Schürman, of Dorstfeld,
drawing-master at the Gymnasium. He does
so respectfully.

The next that attracts our attention is to the
effect that Johanna, daughter of Ober-Post-
Secretär Kauffman and frau, is engaged to the
young curate Hildebrand.

The following is curt:

"To render further notice unnecessary, Marie
Libeau and Eugen Brandt are verlobt."

Hundreds similar are on our table; but we
are suddenly startled by a new feature in the
notifications. We take the following from the
columns of the Cologne Gazette of the third
October

"VERLOBUNGS ANZEIGE.
Auguste Albrecht—Otto Budde
Verlobte.
Rothenfelde. Barmen."

Are the good towns of Rothenfelde and Barmen
"verlobt," or are they the respective
dwelling-places of the young couple? Probably
so. For in the next "Verlobung," headed
"Statt besonderer Meldung," we find at the