very
unclean. Indeed, in spite of its general beauty, Berlin is lamentably
deficient in the modern and common-place article, sewerage. But even
this will come; and in the meantime we may well ponder over the rapid
growth of the city, since the brief space of time that has elapsed since
it was the little town of Cologne upon the Spree, to distinguish it from
the then greater one of Cologne upon the Rhine.

CHAPTER XI.

BERLIN.--POLICE AND PEOPLE.

It may not appear correct to an English reader to couple the people and
the police thus cavalierly together, but in Prussia, as in the rest of
Germany, the police are so completely bound up in, and their services so
entirely devoted to, the every-day existence, as well as any more
prominent acts of the people, that it is impossible to proceed far with
the one without falling into the company of the other. A few facts may
serve to illustrate this point.

We (Alcibiade and I) are here duly received into the employment of Herr
Stickl, Jeweller to the Court. This may appear a matter of no importance
to any but ourselves; nevertheless the "Herr" is bound duly to notify the
circumstance to the police, with date and certification, and must also
instruct the Forsteher, or chief of the Guild of goldsmiths and
jewellers, of the matter, that we may be properly registered by
corporation and police. This is item number one. But I am still
unhoused, and here my good friend and fellow-workman, Alcibiade
Tourniquet, native of Argenteuil, stands me in good stead. Tourniquet
claims to be a Parisian, and has lofty notions about style and
appearances. He lives in Jerusalem Strasse in a grand house, with a
_porte cochere_, and a wide, scrambling staircase. He offers me a share
in his apartment, which is light and commodious; and as his landlady
generously consents to provide an additional bed for my accommodation, on
condition of doubling the rent, that matter is satisfactorily arranged.
Alcibiade has experiences to relate, and this is one of them:

"Pense donc!" cries he. "I arrive in Berlin a perfect stranger. Without
work and without friends, I find living at an hotel too expensive:
Bon!--I look about me for some quiet little chambre garni, and finding
one to my liking, up a great many stairs, genteelly furnished, and not
too dear, I move myself and my little baggage into it without further
inquiry. Bon! Imagine me on the first night of residence, snugly coiled
up bet