Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 64, No. 397, November 1848. Various

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      Frankfort, to outward appearance, is, or at least was when I entered it, as brisk and bustling as ever. The tradesmen, with the exception of the publishers, to whom the Revolution has been a godsend, may not be driving so profitable a business, but the influx of strangers since the Assembly met has been remarkable. Here Young Germany flourishes in full unwashed and uncontrolled luxuriance. Every kind of costume which idiocy can devise is to be met with in the streets, and the conical parliamentary hat confronts you at every turn. The bustle of politics has superseded that of commerce, and the conversation relates far more to democracy than to dollars. The hotels are still crowded, it being the fashion for members of the same political views to dine together at the tables-d'hôte– so that the traveller who is not aware of this arrangement may, by going to one house, find himself a participator in a red republican banquet; whereas, had he merely crossed the street, he might have fed with moderate conservatives. My old quarters used to be at the Weidenbusch; but by this time I had become so disgusted with everything savouring of liberalism that I directed the coachman to drive to the Russischer Hof, where I trusted to find rest and peace under the protecting shadow of Saint Nicholas.

      I was leisurely washing down my evening cutlet with the contents of a flask of Liebfrauenmilch, and wondering whether the pleasant cafés outside the city gates were still in existence, when a huge colossus of a man entered the salle-à-manger, seated himself immediately opposite me at table, and demanded a double portion of kalbs-braten. I could not refrain from taking a deliberate view of the stranger. He appeared to be upwards of sixty, was curiously clad in duffle, possessed a double, nay, a triple chin, and his small pig eyes peered out from under their pent-house above a mass of pendulous and quivering cheek. His stomach, enormous in its development, seemed to extend from his neck to his knees; his short stubby fingers were girded with divers seal-rings of solid bullion, and he spoke in the husky accents of an ogre after too plentiful a repast in the nursery.

      As I gazed upon this marked victim for apoplexy, his features gradually seemed to become familiar to my eyes. I was certain that I had heard that short asthmatic wheeze, and seen that pendulous lip before. Strange suspicions crossed my mind, but it was not until I saw him produce from his pocket a pipe well known to me in former days, that I felt assured of being in the presence of my old preceptor the Herr Professor Klingemann.

      The worthy man had, in the mean time, honoured me with a reciprocal survey; but either his eyes had failed him, or his memory was not so retentive as mine, for he betrayed no symptoms of recognising his quondam pupil. Much affected, I rose up, extended my hand, and inquired if he did not know me.

      He stared at me in bewilderment until I mentioned my name, and then suddenly, with a chuckle of delight, he extended his arms, as if to embrace me across the table – a ceremony which I wisely avoided, as I have observed that glasses broken in a hotel are invariably charged at double the original cost. I made the circuit, however, and, after undergoing the usual hug, and a world of preliminary inquiries, sat down by the side of my former guide, philosopher, and friend.

      Klingemann had always been suspected to be somewhat of a democrat. He had smoked his way through all the intricate labyrinth of German philosophy, in search of what he called the universal system of reconcilement of theory, until his brain became as muddy as the Compensation Pond which supplies Edinburgh with water. Of course, as is always the case under such circumstances, he acquired a corresponding reputation for profundity, and was, by many of his students, esteemed the leading metaphysician of Europe. If a man cannot achieve any other kind of character, he has always this in reserve: if he will make a point of talking unintelligibly, and of employing words which nobody else understands, he will, in time, be raised to the level of Kant and Hegel, without giving himself any extraordinary trouble in the search for fugitive ideas. But the politics of Klingemann – at least in my university days – never used to emerge until he had moistened his clay with a certain modicum of liquid. Then, to be sure, he would descant with almost superhuman energy upon constitutional and despotic systems. He used to demonstrate how perfect liberty was attainable by an immediate return to the noble principles of the Lacedæmonians, whose social code and black broth he esteemed as the perfection of human sagacity. He also held in deep respect the patriarchal form of government, and was of opinion that the soil of the earth belonged to nobody, but ought to be cultivated in common.

      Solomon was right when he averred that there is nothing new under the sun. The principles of communism, as at present advocated on the Continent by Messrs Louis Blanc and Prudhon, and in England by the unfortunate Cuffey, were long ago expounded and practised by Luckie Buchan and Mr Robert Owen. Let us be just in our movement, and pay honour where honour is due. Let those who embrace the creed do justice to the manes of its founder, and style themselves Buchanites, in veneration of that estimable woman whose attempted apotheosis has been so well described by Mr Joseph Train. Professor Klingemann, with all his erudition, had never heard of Luckie Buchan; but, for all that, he was completely of her mind. Had his views been openly promulgated, there can be little doubt that his labours in the university would have been cut short in a somewhat despotic manner; but he had sense enough to avoid observation, and never lectured upon politics except in private, to a select circle of his acolytes.

      Such was Klingemann when I knew him first. We had corresponded for a short while after I left the university, but I soon got tired of the professor's hazy lucubrations, and undutifully omitted to reply, which in time produced the desired effect. For years I heard nothing of him, save on one occasion, when he did me the honour to send me a copy of his magnum opus, entitled "An Essay upon the Ideality, Perceptiveness, and Ratiocination of Notions," closely printed upon two thousand mortal pages of dingy paper, with a request that I would be kind enough to translate and publish it in the English language. As I bore no spite at the moment against any particular bookseller, and was by no means covetous of working out my own individual ruin, I did not think it necessary to comply with this philanthropic suggestion; and the original of the work is perfectly at the service of any gentleman who may have the fancy for attaining a European reputation. Klingemann, I dare say, was disappointed, but he bore no manner of malice.

      "My dear professor," said I, "you are the last man whom I should have expected to meet in Frankfort. I thought you were far away at the university, occupied as usual with those sublime works which have made your name immortal."

      "Ah, Augustus, my dear child!" replied the professor with a deep sigh, "things have strangely altered since you were here last. I used to think that I was labouring in the sphere of usefulness, by concentrating into one focus of ever-brilliant illumination the scattered rays of human idiosyncrasy and idoneousness; but I find now that, for many years, I have been sending the plummet vainly down the deep unfathomable chasm of psychology and speculation! Wass henker! what keeps that schelm with my kalbs-braten? No, my son; I have discovered, though late, that I am made for action, and henceforth I shall devote my energies to the amelioration of the human race."

      "As how, my honoured sir? I am somewhat at a loss to understand you."

      "By taking an active interest in the affairs of the outer and living man, as contradistinguished from the internal reflective being. Know, August Reignold von Dunshunner, that I am a member of the German parliament!"

      "You, my dear professor! Is it possible? And yet why should I doubt?" continued I, bowing reverently to the illustrious man; "at this particular crisis, Europe imperatively needs the services of her master spirits."

      "She does," replied the professor, "and Germany requires them in particular. You see our system was old and antiquated. We were pressed upon from without, and the dark subtile spirit of the Metternichian policy spread like a poisonous miasmatical exhalation over the whole surface of the land. It was time to alter these things – full time that the most gigantically-gifted and heroical race of the world should escape from the insidious fetters of a low and degrading despotism!"

      "Pardon me, my dear professor, but so long a time has elapsed since I left the university, that I can hardly СКАЧАТЬ