surmounted by an exquisite statue of Vesta,
may be as agreeable an object to look at
and quite as warm and comfortable to feel,
as an open fire-place, and that, if made on
true scientific principles, it will diffuse a far
more regular and healthy heat, and, in any
case, that it is infinitely cleaner and more
economical. I do not breathe all sorts of
gases and impurities when sitting too near it,
and little purses and coffins do not fly out and
burn holes in my slippers. I am not worried
by being constantly obliged to look after it,
and poke it, and nurse it. I am not obliged
to get up once or twice every half hour in
windy weather to open the doors and windows
to clear the room of smoke. I am not obliged
to have a dirty coal-scuttle in my room, made
to tumble over in the dark; and I do not run
splinters up my nails while putting on wood
—my stove being fed at the back. All I
know of the operation being a pleasant
rumbling, as fresh logs are cast on, and a
roar, like that of a distant torrent, as the
rushing air is compelled by science to act like
an untiring pair of bellows in want of no
working. Should some clever person say that,
in a little while, I must be breathing air too
dry to be wholesome; I answer, that a very
simple means of preventing the air of my
room from becoming too dry, is to place upon
my stove a little vase containing water and
artificial flowers, if I want it to look pretty:
and, besides, as I have already said, my rooms
communicating one with another, I can regulate
the temperature of them just as I please,
or even open a distant window.

Let me see if I can remember how the day
passes. In the first place, I rise soon after
daylight, for one must be a sluggard indeed to
sleep late in a German house, and it is next to
impossible to do so. At the very top of the
morning, a man—who is maintained by voluntary
contributions from all my neighbours—
begins ringing an enormous bell, ten times
louder than a dustman's, with the premeditated
purpose of waking up man, woman, and child;
and it is but doing him justice to say that he
succeeds most thoroughly Then comes a crier,
who is employed indifferently by the auctioneer
of any public sale that is to take place during
the day, and by advertising shopkeepers, or by
people who have lost or found anything. This
functionary shouts out his mission in the
hoarsest, strangest voice ever heard, and
repeats it at the corner of every street in the
town, according to the terms of his contract.
Understanding what he says, is of course out
of the question, but he wakes me up for all
that, even if my slumbers have survived the
bell.

Up I get then, and repair from bed, into an
immense tub, which serves me for a bath—an
unpopular institution in Germany, and therefore
my proceedings in this respect are subjected
to much remark and inquiry; nay, on
one occasion my servant is waylaid by a fierce
Baron, who lives on the same story, and whose
curiosity has become uncontrollable. That
nobleman insists that my servant shall
demand an immediate interview for him, and
as he is known to be connected with the
police, his demand is of course looked upon
as a law by a German. On being shown in
he casts a rapid glance round the apartment;
probably he has concluded in his own mind
that so much water can be for nothing else
than the alimentary purposes of Democrats
or refugees. He greets me however with
extravagant politeness—a caricature of French
hat-taking-offism before Frenchmen lost their
manners—and at length makes known to me
the object of his early visit. He is anxious to
see what I do with so much water; and on
my explaining, seems relieved, but looks
doubtful and still unconvinced. Upon which
I take him into that sanctum sanctorum,
where the tub is placed surrounded by wet
oil-cloth and considerable splashing. He cannot
resist the evidences of his own senses, but
still supposes I warm the water. No! At
fault again, it is cold. " Impossible!"
exclaims the Baron; "during the whole of
the winter months, from the beginning of
October till the end of May, I am glad to
huddle on my clothes when I get up, as fast as
I can, and never take them off until I go to bed
again: sometimes not then. Such a discipline
would be the death of me."

This important ceremony over, I receive a
visit from an elderly lady, who is the cook of
the establishment. She brings me a small
cup of coffee and two little breads, each made
in the shape of a child's penny trumpet.
These I reject for the twentieth time,
requesting mildly that they be replaced by
tea and a beefsteak. The old lady lifts up
her hands and eyes, and wonders how it is
possible to eat beefsteaks so early in the
morning; but is reassured by a pleasant word
or two, and fancies I must have been ill the
night before, as I tell her I ate no black-
puddings for supper. She is succeeded by the
functionary in uniform who brings my newspaper
from the other end of the town for the
exact sum of the third of a farthing daily.
He, in his turn, gives place to a person who,
in appearance, might pass for a Professor of
Divinity, and I rise respectfully when he is
shown in. He informs me, however, that he
is a journeyman watchmaker, travelling, and
shows me little books stamped all over, and
certificates stamped and sealed without end,
as a preparatory ceremony to asking for some
pecuniary assistance on his journey. I give
him a shilling, upon which he believes that
I must desire change, and informs me
hesitatingly that he has none, though I am not
quite sure that he is telling me the truth. I
reassure him, however, .and making me a
a formal and rather condescending bow, he
goes upon his way.

Again I must look up from a review of
Shakspeare's works, which occupies two-
thirds of my morning paper, for there is Pepi,