sets forth upon the road of
life; he is bullied and hustled by the police upon every step of his
journey; burdened with vexatious regulations at every halting-place; and
while the law forbids him to seek any other shelter than that of his
Herberge, it leaves it to the mercy of his host to yield him the worst
fare, spread for him the vilest litter, and to filch him of his scanty
savings in the bargain. What, in Heaven's name! are the accommodations
for which we in the Schuster-gasse are called upon to pay? There is the
common room with its rude benches and tables; a stone-paved court-yard
with offices, doubtless at one period appropriated as stabling, but the
ground floor of which is now penned off for some few choice biped
occupants; while the story above, reached by a railed ladder, and, in
fact, no more than a stable loft, is nightly crammed to the door with
sweltering humanity. For the purpose of cleanliness there is no other
toilette apparatus than the iron pump in the yard; and for the claims of
nature and decency, no better resource than is afforded by the sheltering
arch of the nearest bridge over the Spree.

The goldsmiths and jewellers in Berlin are too inconsiderable a body to
have a Herberge of their own, and therefore we crowd in with the turners,
the carpenters, and the smiths; the glove-makers, bookbinders, and others
who claim the hospitalities of the asylum in the Schuster-gasse. Let us
take a sketch or two among them that may serve as a sample of the whole.

We have a sturdy young carpenter from Darmstadt, bound to Vienna, or
wherever else he may find a resting-place, who makes his morning and
almost only meal of _Kummel_--corn spirit prepared with caraways--and
brown bread; and whose great exploit and daily exercise is that of
lifting the great table in the common room with his teeth. An iron-jawed
fellow he is, with every muscle in his well-knit body to match.
Fortunately, though a Goliath in strength, he is as simple-minded and
joyous as a child.

Then comes a restless pigmy of a Hungarian, a jeweller, last from
Dresden, full of life and song, but who complains ruefully that the
potatoes of Berlin are violently anti-dyspeptic. This suffering wanderer
from the banks of the Theiss is also vehemently expressive in his opinion
that the indiscriminate use of soap is injurious to the skin, and, as a
matter of principle, never uses any.

Near him stands a lank native of Lubeck, a fringe-maker, whos