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Updated: May 11, 2025
Soaked with rain, and shivering with cold, I entered the village of Schöneberg at two o’clock, just after the rain had ceased, as deplorable a figure as a man commonly presents when all the vigour has been washed out of his face, and his clothes hang limp and damp about his body.
Before you well know that you are out of London you are already in Kensington and Hammersmith; because there are all the way houses on both sides, after you are out of the city; just as you may remember the case is with us when you drive from Berlin to Schoneberg; although in point of prospect, houses and streets, the difference, no doubt, is prodigious.
Since it is my desire not to fatigue the reader of this uneventful narrative, but simply to illustrate by a few notes drawn from my own experience the life of a German workman on the tramp, I shall now pass over a portion of the road between Hamburg and Berlin in silence. My way lay through Schwerin; from Schöneberg to Schwerin is twenty-six English miles, and we find it a long way.
I had resort, a few years ago, to the young botanist Ruhmer, assistant at the Botanical Museum at Schöneberg, who has unfortunately since died of some chest-disease, in order to get some sort of a groundwork for direct investigations. I asked him to look up the literature of the subject, with respect to the employment of the Indian Araceæ for domestic uses or in medicine.
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