The Project Gutenberg eBook, Views a-foot, by J. Bayard Taylor


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Title: Views a-foot

Author: J. Bayard Taylor

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                            VIEWS A-FOOT;

                                  OR

                 EUROPE SEEN WITH KNAPSACK AND STAFF.

                                  BY

                          J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

                    WITH A PREFACE BY N.P. WILLIS.


                 "Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
                    And merrily hent the stile-a;
                   A merry heart goes all the day,
                     Your sad tires in a mile-a."

                                      _Winter's Tale_.



                            IN TWO PARTS.

                               PART I.







      Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by

                          WILEY AND PUTNAM,

 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
                  the Southern District of New York.








PREFACE.

BY N.P. WILLIS.


The book which follows, requires little or no introduction. It tells its
own story, and tells it well. The interest in it, which induces the
writer of this preface to be its usher to the public, is simply that of
his having chanced to be among the first appreciators of the author's
talent--an appreciation that has since been so more than justified, that
the writer is proud to call the author of this book his friend, and
bespeak attention to the peculiar energies he has displayed in travel
and authorship. Mr. Taylor's poetical productions while he was still a
printer's apprentice, made a strong impression on the writer's mind, and
he gave them their due of praise accordingly in the newspaper of which
he was then Editor. Some correspondence ensued, and other fine pieces of
writing strengthened the admiration thus awakened, and when the young
poet-mechanic came to the city, and modestly announced the bold
determination of visiting foreign lands--with means, if they could be
got, but with reliance on manual labor if they could not--the writer,
understanding the man, and seeing how capable he was of carrying out his
manly and enthusiastic scheme, and that it would work uncorruptingly for
the improvement of his mind and character, counselled him to go. He
went--his book tells how successfully for all his purposes. He has
returned, after two years' absence, with large knowledge of the world,
of men and of manners, with a pure, invigorated and healthy mind, having
passed all this time abroad, and seen and accomplished more than most
travelers, _at the cost of only $500, and this sum earned on the road_.
This, in the writer's opinion, is a fine instance of character and
energy. The book, which records the difficulties and struggles of a
printer's apprentice achieving this, must be interesting to Americans.
The pride of the country is in its self-made men.

What Mr. Taylor is, or what he is yet to become, cannot well be touched
upon here, but that it will yet be written, and on a bright page, is, of
course, his own confident hope and the writer's confident expectation.
The book, which is the record of his progress thus far, is now cordially
commended to the public, and it will be read, perhaps, more
understandingly after a perusal of the following outline sketch of the
difficulties the author had to contend with--a letter written in reply
to a note from the writer asking for some of the particulars of his
start and progress:

  _To. Mr. Willis_,--

  MY DEAR SIR:--

  Nearly three years ago (in the beginning of 1844) the time for
  accomplishing my long cherished desire of visiting Europe, seemed to
  arrive. A cousin, who had long intended going abroad, was to leave
  in a few months, and although I was then surrounded by the most
  unfavorable circumstances, I determined to accompany him, at
  whatever hazard. I had still two years of my apprenticeship to serve
  out; I was entirely without means, and my project was strongly
  opposed by my friends, as something too visionary to be
  practicable. A short time before, Mr.  Griswold advised me to
  publish a small volume of youthful effusions, a few of which had
  appeared in Graham's Magazine, which he then edited; the idea struck
  me, that by so doing, I might, if they should be favorably noticed,
  obtain a newspaper correspondence which would enable me to make the
  start.

  The volume was published; a sufficient number was sold among my
  friends to defray all expenses, and it was charitably noticed by the
  Philadelphia press. Some literary friends, to whom I confided my
  design, promised to aid me with their influence. Trusting to this, I
  made arrangements for leaving the printing-office, which I succeeded
  in doing, by making a certain compensation for the remainder of my
  time. I was now fully confident of success, feeling satisfied, that
  a strong will would always make itself a way. After many
  applications to different editors and as many disappointments, I
  finally succeeded, about two weeks before our departure, in making a
  partial engagement.  Mr. Chandler of the United States Gazette and
  Mr. Patterson of the Saturday Evening Post, paid me fifty dollars,
  each, in advance for twelve letters, to be sent from Europe, with
  the probability of accepting more, if these should be
  satisfactory. This, with a sum which I received from Mr. Graham for
  poems published in his Magazine, put me in possession of about a
  hundred and forty dollars, with which I determined to start,
  trusting to future remuneration for letters, or if that should fail,
  to my skill as a compositor, for I supposed I could at the worst,
  work my way through Europe, like the German hand werker.  Thus, with
  another companion, we left home, an enthusiastic and hopeful trio.

  I need not trace our wanderings at length. After eight months of
  suspense, during which time my small means were entirely exhausted,
  I received a letter from Mr. Patterson, continuing the engagement
  for the remainder of my stay, with a remittance of one hundred
  dollars from himself and Mr. Graham. Other remittances, received
  from time to time, enabled me to stay abroad two years, during which
  I traveled on foot upwards of three thousand miles in Germany,
  Switzerland, Italy and France. I was obliged, however, to use the
  strictest economy--to live on pilgrim fare, and do penance in rain
  and cold. My means several times entirely failed; but I was always
  relieved from serious difficulty through unlooked-for friends, or
  some unexpected turn of fortune. At Rome, owing to the expenses and
  embarrassments of traveling in Italy, I was obliged to give up my
  original design of proceeding on foot to Naples and across the
  peninsula to Otranto, sailing thence to Corfu and making a
  pedestrian journey through Albania and Greece. But the main object
  of my pilgrimage is accomplished; I visited the principal places of
  interest in Europe, enjoyed her grandest scenery and the marvels of
  ancient and modern art, became familiar with other languages, other
  customs and other institutions, and returned home, after two years'
  absence, willing now, with satisfied curiosity, to resume life in
  America.

  Yours, most sincerely,

  J. BAYARD TAYLOR.




CONTENTS.

I.--The Voyage

II.--A Day in Ireland

III.--Ben Lomond and the Highland Lakes

IV.--The Burns' Festival

V.--Walk from Edinburgh over the Border and arrival at London

VI.--Some of the "Sights" of London

VII.--Flight through Belgium

VIII.--The Rhine to Heidelberg

IX.--Scenes in and around Heidelberg

X.--A Walk through the Odenwald

XI.--Scenes in Frankfort--An American Composer--The Poet Freiligrath

XII.--A week among the Students

XIII.--Christmas and New Year in Germany

XIV.--Winter in Frankfort--A Fair, an Inundation and a Fire

XV.--The Dead and the Deaf--Mendelssohn the Composer

XVI.--Journey on Foot from Frankfort to Cassel

XVII.--Adventures among the Hartz

XVIII.--Notes in Leipsic and Dresden

XIX.--Rambles in the Saxon Switzerland

XX.--Scenes in Prague

XXI.--Journey through Eastern Bohemia and Moravia to the Danube

XXII.--Vienna

XXIII.--Up the Danube

XXIV.--The Unknown Student

XXV.--The Austrian Alps

XXVI.--Munich

XXVII.--Through Wurtemberg to Heidelberg

XXVIII.--Freiburg and the Black Forest

XXIX.--People and Places in Eastern Switzerland

XXX.--Passage of the St Gothard and descent into Italy

XXXI.--Milan

XXXII.--Walk from Milan to Genoa

XXXIII.--Scenes in Genoa, Leghorn and Pisa

XXXIV.--Florence and its Galleries

XXXV.--A Pilgrimage to Vallombrosa

XXXVI.--Walk to Siena and Pratolino--Incidents in Florence

XXXVII.--American Art in Florence

XXXVIII.--An Adventure on the Great St. Bernard--Walks around Florence

XXXIX.--Winter Traveling among the Appenines

XL.--Rome

XLI.--Tivoli and the Roman Campagna

XLII.--Tivoli and the Roman Campagna (_continued_)

XLIII.--Pilgrimage to Vaucluse and Journey up the Rhone

XLIV.--Traveling in Burgundy--The Miseries of a Country Diligence

XLV.--Poetical Scenes in Paris

XLVI.--A Glimpse of Normandy

XLVII.--Lockhart, Bernard Barton and Croly--London Chimes and Greenwich
Fair

XLVIII.--Homeward Bound--Conclusion




TO

FRANK TAYLOR,

THESE RECORDS OF THE PILGRIMAGE,

WHOSE TOILS AND ENJOYMENTS WE HAVE SHARED TOGETHER,

ARE

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,

BY

HIS RELATIVE AND FRIEND.




VIEWS A-FOOT.





CHAPTER I.


THE VOYAGE.

An enthusiastic desire of visiting the Old World haunted me from early
childhood. I cherished a presentiment, amounting almost to belief, that
I should one day behold the scenes, among which my fancy had so long
wandered. The want of means was for a time a serious check to my
anticipations; but I could not content myself to wait until I had slowly
accumulated so large a sum as tourists usually spend on their travels.
It seemed to me that a more humble method of seeing the world would
place within the power of almost every one, what has hitherto been
deemed the privilege of the wealthy few. Such a journey, too, offered
advantages for becoming acquainted with people as well as places--for
observing more intimately, the effect of government and education, and
more than all, for the study of human nature, in every condition of
life. At length I became possessed of a small sum, to be earned by
letters descriptive of things abroad, and on the 1st of July, 1844, set
sail for Liverpool, with a relative and friend, whose circumstances were
somewhat similar to mine. How far the success of the experiment and the
object of our long pilgrimage were attained, these pages will show.

       *       *       *       *       *

    LAND AND SEA.

    There are springs that rise in the greenwood's heart,
      Where its leafy glooms are cast,
    And the branches droop in the solemn air,
      Unstirred by the sweeping blast.
    There are hills that lie in the noontide calm,
      On the lap of the quiet earth;
    And, crown'd with gold by the ripened grain,
      Surround my place of birth.

    Dearer are these to my pining heart,
      Than the beauty of the deep,
    When the moonlight falls in a bolt of gold
      On the waves that heave in sleep.
    The rustling talk of the clustered leaves
      That shade a well-known door,
    Is sweeter far than the booming sound
      Of the breaking wave before.

    When night on the ocean sinks calmly down,
      I climb the vessel's prow,
    Where the foam-wreath glows with its phosphor light,
      Like a crown on a sea-nymph's brow.
    Above, through the lattice of rope and spar,
      The stars in their beauty burn;
    And the spirit longs to ride their beams,
      And back to the loved return.

    They say that the sunset is brighter far
      When it sinks behind the sea;
    That the stars shine out with a softer fire--
      Not thus they seem to me.
    Dearer the flush of the crimson west
      Through trees that my childhood knew.
    When the star of love with its silver lamp,
      Lights the homes of the tried and true!

Could one live on the sense of beauty alone, exempt from the necessity
of "creature comforts," a sea-voyage would be delightful. To the
landsman there is sublimity in the wild and ever-varied forms of the
ocean; they fill his mind with living images of a glory he had only
dreamed of before. But we would have been willing to forego all this and
get back the comforts of the shore. At New York we took passage in the
second cabin of the Oxford, which, as usual in the Liverpool packets,
consisted of a small space amid-ships, fitted up with rough, temporary
berths. The communication with the deck is by an open hatchway, which in
storms is closed down. As the passengers in this cabin furnish their
own provisions, we made ourselves acquainted with the contents of
certain storehouses on Pine St. wharf, and purchased a large box of
provisions, which was stowed away under our narrow berth. The cook, for
a small compensation, took on himself the charge of preparing them, and
we made ourselves as comfortable as the close, dark dwelling would
admit.

As we approached the Banks of Newfoundland, a gale arose, which for two
days and nights carried us on, careering Mazeppa-like, up hill and down.
The sea looked truly magnificent, although the sailors told us it was
nothing at all in comparison with the storms of winter. But we were not
permitted to pass the Banks, without experiencing one of the calms, for
which that neighborhood is noted. For three days we lay almost
motionless on the glassy water, sometimes surrounded by large flocks of
sea-gulls. The weed brought by the gulf stream, floated around--some
branches we fished up, were full of beautiful little shells. Once a
large school of black-fish came around the vessel, and the carpenter
climbed down on the fore-chains, with a harpoon to strike one. Scarcely
had he taken his position, when they all darted off in a straight line,
through the water, and were soon out of sight. He said they smelt the
harpoon.

We congratulated ourselves on having reached the Banks in seven days, as
it is considered the longest third-part of the passage. But the hopes of
reaching Liverpool in twenty days, were soon overthrown. A succession of
southerly winds drove the vessel as far north as lat. 55 deg., without
bringing us much nearer our destination. It was extremely cold, for we
were but five degrees south of the latitude of Greenland, and the long
northern twilights came on. The last glow of the evening twilight had
scarcely faded, before the first glimmering of dawn appeared. I found it
extremely easy to read, at 10 P.M., on the deck.

We had much diversion on board from a company of Iowa Indians, under the
celebrated chief "White Cloud," who are on a visit to England. They are
truly a wild enough looking company, and helped not a little to relieve
the tedium of the passage. The chief was a very grave and dignified
person, but some of the braves were merry enough. One day we had a
war-dance on deck, which was a most ludicrous scene. The chief and two
braves sat upon the deck, beating violently a small drum and howling
forth their war-song, while the others in full dress, painted in a
grotesque style, leaped about, brandishing tomahawks and spears, and
terminating each dance with a terrific yell. Some of the men are very
fine-looking, but the squaws are all ugly. They occupied part of the
second cabin, separated only by a board partition from our room. This
proximity was any thing but agreeable. They kept us awake more than half
the night, by singing and howling in the most dolorous manner, with the
accompaniment of slapping their hands violently on their bare breasts.
We tried an opposition, and a young German student, who was returning
home after two years' travel in America, made our room ring with the
chorus from Der Freischütz--but in vain. They _would_ howl and beat
their breasts, and the pappoose _would_ squall. Any loss of temper is
therefore not to be wondered at, when I state that I could scarcely turn
in my berth, much less stretch myself out; my cramped limbs alone drove
off half the night's slumber.

It was a pleasure, at least, to gaze on their strong athletic frames.
Their massive chests and powerful limbs put to shame our dwindled
proportions. One old man, in particular, who seemed the patriarch of the
band, used to stand for hours on the quarter deck, sublime and
motionless as a statue of Jupiter. An interesting incident occurred
during the calm of which I spoke. They began to be fearful we were
doomed to remain there forever, unless the spirits were invoked for a
favorable wind. Accordingly the prophet lit his pipe and smoked with
great deliberation, muttering all the while in a low voice. Then, having
obtained a bottle of beer from the captain, he poured it solemnly over
the stern of the vessel into the sea. There were some indications of
wind at the time, and accordingly the next morning we had a fine breeze,
which the Iowas attributed solely to the Prophet's incantation and
Eolus' love of beer.

After a succession of calms and adverse winds, on the 25th we were off
the Hebrides, and though not within sight of land, the southern winds
came to us strongly freighted with the "meadow freshness" of the Irish
bogs, so we could at least _smell_ it. That day the wind became more
favorable, and the next morning we were all roused out of our berths by
sunrise, at the long wished-for cry of "land!" Just under the golden
flood of light that streamed through the morning clouds, lay afar-off
and indistinct the crags of an island, with the top of a light-house
visible at one extremity. To the south of it, and barely
distinguishable, so completely was it blended in hue with the veiling
cloud, loomed up a lofty mountain. I shall never forget the sight! As we
drew nearer, the dim and soft outline it first wore, was broken into a
range of crags, with lofty precipices jutting out to the sea, and
sloping off inland. The white wall of the light-house shone in the
morning's light, and the foam of the breakers dashed up at the foot of
the airy cliffs. It was worth all the troubles of a long voyage, to feel
the glorious excitement which this herald of new scenes and new
adventures created. The light-house was on Tory Island, on the
north-western coast of Ireland. The Captain decided on taking the North
Channel, for, although rarely done, it was in our case nearer, and is
certainly more interesting than the usual route.

We passed the Island of Ennistrahul, near the entrance of Londonderry
harbor, and at sunset saw in the distance the islands of Islay and Jura,
off the Scottish coast. Next morning we were close to the promontory of
Fairhead, a bold, precipitous headland, like some of the Palisades on
the Hudson; the highlands of the Mull of Cantire were on the opposite
side of the Channel, and the wind being ahead, we tacked from shore to
shore, running so near the Irish coast, that we could see the little
thatched huts, stacks of peat, and even rows of potatoes in the fields.
It was a panorama: the view extended for miles inland, and the fields of
different colored grain were spread out before us, a brilliant mosaic.
Towards evening we passed Ailsa Crag, the sea-bird's home, within sight,
though about twenty miles distant.

On Sunday, the 28th, we passed the lofty headland of the Mull of
Galloway and entered the Irish Sea. Here there was an occurrence of an
impressive nature. A woman, belonging to the steerage, who had been ill
the whole passage, died the morning before. She appeared to be of a very
avaricious disposition, though this might indeed have been the result of
self-denial, practised through filial affection. In the morning she was
speechless, and while they were endeavoring to persuade her to give up
her keys to the captain, died. In her pocket were found two parcels,
containing forty sovereigns, sewed up with the most miserly care. It was
ascertained she had a widowed mother in the north of Ireland, and
judging her money could be better applied than to paying for a funeral
on shore, the captain gave orders for committing the body to the waves.
It rained drearily as her corpse, covered with starred bunting, was held
at the gangway while the captain read the funeral service; then one
plunge was heard, and a white object, flashed up through the dark
waters, as the ship passed on.

In the afternoon we passed the Isle of Man, having a beautiful view of
the Calf, with a white stream tumbling down the rocks into the sea; and
at night saw the sun set behind the mountains of Wales. About midnight,
the pilot came on board, and soon after sunrise I saw the distant spires
of Liverpool. The Welsh coast was studded with windmills, all in motion,
and the harbor spotted with buoys, bells and floating lights. How
delightful it was to behold the green trees on the banks of the Mersey,
and to know that in a few hours we should be on land! About 11 o'clock
we came to anchor in the channel of the Mersey, near the docks, and
after much noise, bustle and confusion, were transferred, with our
baggage, to a small steamboat, giving a parting cheer to the Iowas, who
remained on board. On landing, I stood a moment to observe the scene.
The baggage-wagons, drawn by horses, mules and donkeys, were
extraordinary; men were going about crying "_the celebrated Tralorum
gingerbread!_" which they carried in baskets; and a boy in the
University dress, with long blue gown and yellow knee-breeches, was
running to the wharf to look at the Indians.

At last the carts were all loaded, the word was given to start, and
then, what a scene ensued! Away went the mules, the horses and the
donkeys; away ran men and women and children, carrying chairs and
trunks, and boxes and bedding. The wind was blowing, and the dust
whirled up as they dashed helter-skelter through the gate and started
off on a hot race, down the dock to the depot. Two wagons came together,
one of which was overturned, scattering the broken boxes of a Scotch
family over the pavement; but while the poor woman was crying over her
loss, the tide swept on, scarcely taking time to glance at the mishap.

Our luggage was "passed" with little trouble; the officer merely opening
the trunks and pressing his hands on the top. Even some American
reprints of English works which my companion carried, and feared would
be taken from him, were passed over without a word. I was agreeably
surprised at this, as from the accounts of some travellers, I had been
led to fear horrible things of custom-houses. This over, we took a
stroll about the city. I was first struck by seeing so many people
walking in the middle of the streets, and so many gentlemen going about
with pinks stuck in their button-holes. Then, the houses being all built
of brown granite or dark brick, gives the town a sombre appearance,
which the sunshine (when there is any) cannot dispel. Of Liverpool we
saw little. Before the twilight had wholly faded, we were again tossing
on the rough waves of the Irish Sea.




CHAPTER II.

A DAY IN IRELAND.


On calling at the steamboat office in Liverpool, to take passage to Port
Rush, we found that the fare in the fore cabin was but two shillings and
a half, while in the chief cabin it was six times as much. As I had
started to make the tour of all Europe with a sum little higher than is
sometimes given for the mere passage to and fro, there was no
alternative--the twenty-four hours' discomfort could be more easily
endured than the expense, and as I expected to encounter many hardships,
it was best to make a beginning. I had crossed the ocean with tolerable
comfort for twenty-four dollars, and was determined to try whether
England, where I had been told it was almost impossible to breathe
without expense, might not also be seen by one of limited means.

The fore _cabin_ was merely a bare room, with a bench along one side,
which was occupied by half a dozen Irishmen in knee-breeches and heavy
brogans. As we passed out of the Clarence Dock at 10 P.M., I went below
and managed to get a seat on one end of the bench, where I spent the
night in sleepless misery. The Irish bestowed themselves about the floor
as they best could, for there was no light, and very soon the Morphean
deepness of their breathing gave token of blissful unconsciousness.

The next morning was misty and rainy, but I preferred walking the deck
and drying myself occasionally beside the chimney, to sitting in the
dismal room below. We passed the Isle of Man, and through the whole
forenoon were tossed about very disagreeably in the North Channel. In
the afternoon we stopped at Larne, a little antiquated village, not far
from Belfast, at the head of a crooked arm of the sea. There is an old
ivy-grown tower near, and high green mountains rise up around. After
leaving it, we had a beautiful panoramic view of the northern coast.
Many of the precipices are of the same formation as the Causeway;
Fairhead, a promontory of this kind, is grand in the extreme. The
perpendicular face of fluted rock is about three hundred feet in height,
and towering up sublimely from the water, seemed almost to overhang our
heads.

My companion compared it to Niagara Falls petrified; and I think the
simile very striking. It is like a cataract falling in huge waves, in
some places leaping out from a projecting rock, in others descending in
an unbroken sheet.

We passed the Giant's Causeway after dark, and about eleven o'clock
reached the harbor of Port Rush, where, after stumbling up a strange old
street, in the dark, we found a little inn, and soon forgot the Irish
Coast and everything else.

In the morning when we arose it was raining, with little prospect of
fair weather, but having expected nothing better, we set out on foot for
the Causeway. The rain, however, soon came down in torrents, and we were
obliged to take shelter in a cabin by the road-side. The whole house
consisted of one room, with bare walls and roof, and earthen floor,
while a window of three or four panes supplied the light. A fire of peat
was burning on the hearth, and their breakfast, of potatoes alone, stood
on the table. The occupants received us with rude but genuine
hospitality, giving us the only seats in the room to sit upon; except a
rickety bedstead that stood in one corner and a small table, there was
no other furniture in the house. The man appeared rather intelligent,
and although he complained of the hardness of their lot, had no sympathy
with O'Connell or the Repeal movement.

We left this miserable hut, as soon as it ceased raining--and, though
there were many cabins along the road, few were better than this. At
length, after passing the walls of an old church, in the midst of older
tombs, we saw the roofless towers of Dunluce Castle, on the sea-shore.
It stands on an isolated rook, rising perpendicularly two hundred feet
above the sea, and connected with the cliffs of the mainland by a narrow
arch of masonry. On the summit of the cliffs were the remains of the
buildings where the ancient lords kept their vassals. An old man, who
takes care of it for Lord Antrim, on whose property it is situated,
showed us the way down to the castle. We walked across the narrow arch,
entered the ruined hall, and looked down on the roaring sea below. It
still rained, the wind swept furiously through the decaying arches of
the banqueting hall and waved the long grass on the desolate
battlements. Far below, the sea foamed white on the breakers and sent up
an unceasing boom. It was the most mournful and desolate picture I ever
beheld. There were some low dungeons yet entire, and rude stairways,
where, by stooping down, I could ascend nearly to the top of one of the
towers, and look out on the wild scenery of the coast.

Going back, I found a way down the cliff, to the mouth of a cavern in
the rock, which extends under the whole castle to the sea. Sliding down
a heap of sand and stones, I stood under an arch eighty feet high; in
front the breakers dashed into the entrance, flinging the spray half-way
to the roof, while the sound rang up through the arches like thunder. It
seemed to me the haunt of the old Norsemen's sea-gods!

We left the road near Dunluce and walked along the smooth beach to the
cliffs that surround the Causeway. Here we obtained a guide, and
descended to one of the caves which can be entered from the shore.
Opposite the entrance a bare rock called Sea Gull Isle, rises out of the
sea like a church steeple. The roof at first was low, but we shortly
came to a branch that opened on the sea, where the arch was forty-six
feet in height. The breakers dashed far into the cave, and flocks of
sea-birds circled round its mouth. The sound of a gun was like a
deafening peal of thunder, crashing from arch to arch till it rolled out
of the cavern.

On the top of the hill a splendid hotel is erected for visitors to the
Causeway; after passing this we descended to the base of the cliffs,
which are here upwards of four hundred feet high, and soon began to
find, in the columnar formation of the rocks, indications of our
approach. The guide pointed out some columns which appeared to have been
melted and run together, from which Sir Humphrey Davy attributed the
formation of the Causeway to the action of fire. Near this is the
Giant's Well, a spring of the purest water, the bottom formed by three
perfect hexagons, and the sides of regular columns. One of us observing
that no giant had ever drunk from it, the old man answered--"Perhaps
not: but it was made by a giant--God Almighty!"

From the well, the Causeway commences--a mass of columns, from
triangular to octagonal, lying in compact forms, and extending into the
sea. I was somewhat disappointed at first, having supposed the Causeway
to be of great height, but I found the Giant's Loom, which is the
highest part of it, to be but about fifty feet from the water. The
singular appearance of the columns and the many strange forms which they
assume, render it nevertheless, an object of the greatest interest.
Walking out on the rocks we came to the Ladies' Chair, the seat, back,
sides and footstool, being all regularly formed by the broken columns.
The guide said that any lady who would take three drinks from the
Giant's Well, then sit in this chair and think of any gentleman for whom
she had a preference, would be married before a twelvemonth. I asked him
if it would answer as well for gentlemen, for by a wonderful coincidence
we had each drank three times at the well! He said it would, and thought
he was confirming his statement.

A cluster of columns about half-way up the cliff is called the Giant's
Organ--from its very striking resemblance to that instrument, and a
single rock, worn by the waves into the shape of a rude seat, is his
chair. A mile or two further along the coast, two cliffs project from
the range, leaving a vast semicircular space between, which, from its
resemblance to the old Roman theatres, was appropriated for that purpose
by the Giant. Halfway down the crags are two or three pinnacles of rock,
called the Chimneys, and the stumps of several others can be seen,
which, it is said, were shot off by a vessel belonging to the Spanish
Armada, in mistake for the towers of Dunluce Castle. The vessel was
afterwards wrecked in the bay below, which has ever since been called
Spanish Bay, and in calm weather the wreck may be still seen. Many of
the columns of the Causeway have been carried off and sold as pillars
for mantels--and though a notice is put up threatening any one with the
rigor of the law, depredations are occasionally made.

Returning, we left the road at Dunluce, and took a path which led along
the summit of the cliffs. The twilight was gathering, and the wind blew
with perfect fury, which, combined with the black and stormy sky, gave
the coast an air of extreme wildness. All at once, as we followed the
winding path, the crags appeared to open before us, disclosing a yawning
chasm, down which a large stream, falling in an unbroken sheet, was lost
in the gloom below. Witnessed in a calm day, there may perhaps be
nothing striking about it, but coming upon us at once, through the gloom
of twilight, with the sea thundering below and a scowling sky above, it
was absolutely startling.

The path at last wound, with many a steep and slippery bend, down the
almost perpendicular crags, to the shore, at the foot of a giant
isolated rock, having a natural arch through it, eighty feet in height.
We followed the narrow strip of beach, having the bare crags on one side
and a line of foaming breakers on the other. It soon grew dark; a
furious storm came up and swept like a hurricane along the shore. I then
understood what Horne means by "the lengthening javelins of the blast,"
for every drop seemed to strike with the force of an arrow, and our
clothes were soon pierced in every part.

Then we went up among the sand hills, and lost each other in the
darkness, when, after stumbling about among the gullies for half an
hour, shouting for my companions, I found the road and heard my call
answered; but it happened to be two Irishmen, who came up and said--"And
is it another gintleman ye're callin' for? we heard some one cryin', and
didn't know but somebody might be kilt."

Finally, about eleven o'clock we all arrived at the inn, dripping with
rain, and before a warm fire concluded the adventures of our day in
Ireland.




CHAPTER III.

BEN LOMOND AND THE HIGHLAND LAKES.


The steamboat Londonderry called the next day at Port Rush, and we left
in her for Greenock. We ran down the Irish coast, past Dunluce Castle
and the Causeway; the Giant's organ was very plainly visible, and the
winds were strong enough to have sounded a storm-song upon it. Farther
on we had a distant view of Carrick-a-Rede, a precipitous rock,
separated by a yawning chasm from the shore, frequented by the catchers
of sea-birds. A narrow swinging bridge, which is only passable in calm
weather, crosses this chasm, 200 feet above the water.

The deck of the steamer was crowded with Irish, and certainly gave no
very favorable impression of the condition of the peasantry of Ireland.
On many of their countenances there was scarcely a mark of
intelligence--they were a most brutalized and degraded company of
beings. Many of them were in a beastly state of intoxication, which,
from the contents of some of their pockets, was not likely to decrease.
As evening drew on, two or three began singing and the others collected
in groups around them. One of them who sang with great spirit, was
loudly applauded, and poured forth song after song, of the most rude and
unrefined character.

We took a deck passage for three shillings, in preference to paying
twenty for the cabin, and having secured a vacant place near the
chimney, kept it during the whole passage. The waves were as rough in
the Channel as I ever saw them in the Atlantic, and our boat was tossed
about like a plaything. By keeping still we escaped sickness, but we
could not avoid the sight of the miserable beings who filled the deck.
Many of them spoke in the Irish tongue, and our German friend (the
student whom I have already mentioned) noticed in many of the words a
resemblance to his mother tongue. I procured a bowl of soup from the
steward, but as I was not able to eat it, I gave it to an old man whose
hungry look and wistful eyes convinced me it would not be lost on him.
He swallowed it with ravenous avidity, together with a crust of bread,
which was all I had to give him, and seemed for the time as happy and
cheerful as if all his earthly wants were satisfied.

We passed by the foot of Goat Fell, a lofty mountain on the island of
Arran, and sped on through the darkness past the hills of Bute, till we
entered the Clyde. We arrived at Greenock at one o'clock at night, and
walking at random through its silent streets, met a policeman, whom we
asked to show us where we might find lodgings. He took my cousin and
myself to the house of a poor widow, who had a spare bed which she let
to strangers, and then conducted our comrade and the German to another
lodging-place.

An Irish strolling musician, who was on board the Dumbarton boat,
commenced playing soon after we left Greenock, and, to my surprise,
struck at once into "Hail Columbia." Then he gave "the Exile of Erin,"
with the most touching sweetness; and I noticed that always after
playing any air that was desired of him, he would invariably return to
the sad lament, which I never heard executed with more feeling. It might
have been the mild, soft air of the morning, or some peculiar mood of
mind that influenced me, but I have been far less affected by music
which would be considered immeasurably superior to his. I had been
thinking of America, and going up to the old man, I quietly bade him
play "Home." It thrilled with a painful delight that almost brought
tears to my eyes. My companion started as the sweet melody arose, and
turned towards me, his face kindling with emotion.

Dumbarton Rock rose higher and higher as we went up the Clyde, and
before we arrived at the town I hailed the dim outline of Ben Lomond,
rising far off among the highlands. The town is at the head of a small
inlet, a short distance from the rock, which was once surrounded by
water. We went immediately to the Castle. The rock is nearly 500 feet
high, and from its position and great strength as a fortress, has been
called the Gibraltar of Scotland. The top is surrounded with
battlements, and the armory and barracks stand in a cleft between the
two peaks. We passed down a green lane, around the rock, and entered the
castle on the south side. A soldier conducted us through a narrow cleft,
overhung with crags, to the summit. Here, from the remains of a round
building, called Wallace's Tower, from its having been used as a
look-out station by that chieftain, we had a beautiful view of the whole
of Leven Vale to Loch Lomond, Ben Lomond and the Highlands, and on the
other hand, the Clyde and the Isle of Bute. In the soft and still
balminess of the morning, it was a lovely picture. In the armory, I
lifted the sword of Wallace, a two-handed weapon, five feet in length.
We were also shown a Lochaber battle-axe, from Bannockburn, and several
ancient claymores.

We lingered long upon the summit before we forsook the stern fortress
for the sweet vale spread out before us. It was indeed a glorious walk,
from Dumbarton to Loch Lomond, through this enchanting valley. The air
was mild and clear; a few light clouds occasionally crossing the sun,
chequered the hills with sun and shade. I have as yet seen nothing that
in pastoral beauty can compare with its glassy winding stream, its mossy
old woods, and guarding hills--and the ivy-grown, castellated towers
embosomed in its forests, or standing on the banks of the Leven--the
purest of rivers. At a little village called Renton, is a monument to
Smollett, but the inhabitants seem to neglect his memory, as one of the
tablets on the pedestal is broken and half fallen away. Further up the
vale a farmer showed us an old mansion in the midst of a group of trees
on the bank of the Leven, which he said belonged to Smollett--or
Roderick Random, as he called him. Two or three old pear trees were
still standing where the garden had formerly been, under which he was
accustomed to play in his childhood.

At the head of Leven Vale, we set off in the steamer "Water Witch" over
the crystal waters of Loch Lomond, passing Inch Murrin, the deer-park of
the Duke of Montrose, and Inch Caillach,

    ----"where gray pines wave
    Their shadows o'er Clan Alpine's grave."

Under the clear sky and golden light of the declining sun, we entered
the Highlands, and heard on every side names we had learned long ago in
the lays of Scott. Here were Glen Fruin and Bannochar, Ross Dhu and the
pass of Beal-ma-na. Further still, we passed Rob Roy's rock, where the
lake is locked in by lofty mountains. The cone-like peak of Ben Lomond
rises far above on the right, Ben Voirlich stands in front, and the
jagged crest of Ben Arthur looks over the shoulders of the western
hills. A Scotchman on board pointed out to us the remarkable places, and
related many interesting legends. Above Inversnaid, where there is a
beautiful waterfall, leaping over the rock and glancing out from the
overhanging birches, we passed McFarland's Island, concerning the origin
of which name, he gave a history. A nephew of one of the old Earls of
Lennox, the ruins of whose castle we saw on Inch Murrin, having murdered
his uncle's cook in a quarrel, was obliged to flee for his life.
Returning after many years, he built a castle upon this island, which
was always after named, on account of his exile, _Far-land_. On a
precipitous point above Inversnaid, are two caves in the rock; one near
the water is called Rob Roy's, though the guides generally call it
Bruce's also, to avoid trouble, as the real Bruce's Cave is high up the
hill. It is so called, because Bruce hid there one night, from the
pursuit of his enemies. It is related that a mountain goat, who used
this probably for a sleeping place, entered, trod on his mantle, and
aroused him. Thinking his enemies were upon him, he sprang up, and saw
the silly animal before him. In token of gratitude for this agreeable
surprise, when he became king, a law was passed, declaring goats free
throughout all Scotland--unpunishable for whatever trespass they might
commit, and the legend further says, that not having been repealed, it
continues in force at the present day.

On the opposite shore of the lake is a large rock, called "Bull's Rock,"
having a door in the side, with a stairway cut through the interior to a
pulpit on the top, from which the pastor at Arroquhar preaches a monthly
discourse. The Gaelic legend of the rock is, that it once stood near the
summit of the mountain above, and was very nearly balanced on the edge
of a precipice. Two wild bulls, fighting violently, dashed with great
force against the rock, which, being thrown from its balance, was
tumbled down the side of the mountain, till it reached its present
position. The Scot was speaking with great bitterness of the betrayal of
Wallace, when I asked him if it was still considered an insult to turn a
loaf of bread bottom upwards in the presence of a Montieth. "Indeed it
is, sir," said he, "I have often done it myself."

Until last May, travellers were taken no higher up the lake than Rob
Roy's Cave, but another boat having commenced running, they can now go
beyond Loch Lomond, two miles up Glen Falloch, to the Inn of Inverarnan,
thereby visiting some of the finest scenery in that part of the
Highlands. It was ludicrous, however, to see the steamboat on a river
scarcely wider than herself, in a little valley, hemmed in completely
with lofty mountains. She went on, however, pushing aside the thickets
which lined both banks, and I almost began to think she was going to
take the shore for it, when we came to a place widened out for her to be
turned around in; here we jumped ashore in a green meadow, on which the
cool mist was beginning to descend.

When we arose in the morning, at 4 o'clock, to return with the boat, the
sun was already shining upon the westward hills, scarcely a cloud was in
the sky, and the air was pure and cool. To our great delight Ben Lomond
was unshrouded, and we were told that a more favorable day for the
ascent had not occurred for two months. We left the boat at Rowardennan,
an inn at the southern base of Ben Lomond. After breakfasting on Loch
Lomond trout, I stole out to the shore while my companions were
preparing for the ascent, and made a hasty sketch of the lake.

We purposed descending on the northern side and crossing the Highlands
to Loch Katrine; though it was represented as difficult and dangerous by
the guide who wished to accompany us, we determined to run the risk of
being enveloped in a cloud on the summit, and so set out alone, the path
appearing plain before us. We had no difficulty in following it up the
lesser heights, around the base. It wound on, over rock and bog, among
the heather and broom with which the mountain is covered, sometimes
running up a steep acclivity, and then winding zigzag round a rocky
ascent. The rains two days before, had made the bogs damp and muddy, but
with this exception, we had little trouble for some time. Ben Lomond is
a doubly formed mountain. For about three-fourths of the way there is a
continued ascent, when it is suddenly terminated by a large barren
plain, from one end of which the summit shoots up abruptly, forming at
the north side, a precipice 500 feet high. As we approached the summit
of the first part of the mountain, the way became very steep and
toilsome; but the prospect, which had before been only on the south
side, began to open on the east, and we saw suddenly spread out below
us, the vale of Menteith, with "far Loch Ard and Aberfoil" in the
centre, and the huge front of Benvenue filling up the picture. Taking
courage from this, we hurried on. The heather had become stunted and
dwarfish, and the ground was covered with short brown grass. The
mountain sheep, which we saw looking at us from the rock above, had worn
so many paths along the side, that we could not tell which to take, but
pushed on in the direction of the summit, till thinking it must be near
at hand, we found a mile and a half of plain before us, with the top of
Ben Lomond at the farther end. The plain was full of wet moss, crossed
in all directions by deep ravines or gullies worn in it by the mountain
rains, and the wind swept across with a tempest-like force.

I met, near the base, a young gentleman from Edinburgh, who had left
Rowardennan before us, and we commenced ascending together. It was hard
work, but neither liked to stop, so we climbed up to the first resting
place, and found the path leading along the brink of a precipice. We
soon attained the summit, and climbing up a little mound of earth and
stones, I saw the half of Scotland at a glance. The clouds hung just
above the mountain tops, which rose all around like the waves of a
mighty sea. On every side--near and far--stood their misty summits, but
Ben Lomond was the monarch of them all. Loch Lomond lay unrolled under
my feet like a beautiful map, and just opposite, Loch Long thrust its
head from between the feet of the crowded hills, to catch a glimpse of
the giant. We could see from Ben Nevis to Ayr--from Edinburgh to Staffa.
Stirling and Edinburgh Castles would have been visible, but that the
clouds hung low in the valley of the Forth and hid them from our sight.

The view from Ben Lomond is nearly twice as extensive as that from
Catskill, being uninterrupted on every side, but it wants the glorious
forest scenery, clear, blue sky, and active, rejoicing character of the
latter. We stayed about two hours upon the summit, taking refuge behind
the cairn, when the wind blew strong. I found the smallest of flowers
under a rock, and brought it away as a memento. In the middle of the
precipice there is a narrow ravine or rather cleft in the rock, to the
bottom, from whence the mountain slopes regularly but steeply down to
the valley. At the bottom we stopped to awake the echoes, which were
repeated four times; our German companion sang the Hunter's Chorus,
which resounded magnificently through this Highland hall. We drank from
the river Forth, which starts from a spring at the foot of the rock, and
then commenced descending. This was also toilsome enough. The mountain
was quite wet and covered with loose stones, which, dislodged by our
feet, went rattling down the side, oftentimes to the danger of the
foremost ones; and when we had run or rather slid down the three miles,
to the bottom, our knees trembled so as scarcely to support us.

Here, at a cottage on the farm of Coman, we procured some oat cakes and
milk for dinner, from an old Scotch woman, who pointed out the direction
of Loch Katrine, six miles distant; there was no road, nor indeed a
solitary dwelling between. The hills were bare of trees, covered with
scraggy bushes and rough heath, which in some places was so thick we
could scarcely drag our feet through. Added to this, the ground was
covered with a kind of moss that retained the moisture like a sponge, so
that our boots ere long became thoroughly soaked. Several considerable
streams were rushing down the side, and many of the wild breed of black
Highland cattle were grazing around. After climbing up and down one or
two heights, occasionally startling the moorcock and ptarmigan from
their heathery coverts, we saw the valley of Loch Con; while in the
middle of the plain on the top of the mountain we had ascended, was a
sheet of water which we took to be Loch Ackill. Two or three wild fowl
swimming on its surface were the only living things in sight. The peaks
around shut it out from all view of the world; a single decayed tree
leaned over it from a mossy rock, which gave the whole scene an air of
the most desolate wildness. I forget the name of the lake; but we
learned afterwards that the Highlanders consider it the abode of the
fairies, or "men of peace," and that it is still superstitiously shunned
by them after nightfall.

From the next mountain we saw Loch Ackill and Loch Katrine below, but a
wet and weary descent had yet to be made. I was about throwing off my
knapsack on a rock, to take a sketch of Loch Katrine, which appeared
very beautiful from this point, when we discerned a cavalcade of ponies
winding along the path from Inversnaid, to the head of the lake, and
hastened down to take the boat when they should arrive. Our haste turned
out to be unnecessary, however, for they had to wait for their luggage,
which was long in coming. Two boatmen then offered to take us for two
shillings and sixpence each, with the privilege of stopping at Ellen's
Isle; the regular fare being two shillings. We got in, when, after
exchanging a few words in Gaelic, one of them called to the travellers,
of whom there were a number, to come and take passage at two
shillings--then at one and sixpence, and finally concluded by requesting
them all to step on board the shilling boat! At length, having secured
nine at this reduced price, we pushed off; one of the passengers took
the helm, and the boat glided merrily over the clear water.

It appears there is some opposition among the boatmen this summer, which
is all the better for travelers. They are a bold race, and still
preserve many of the characteristics of the clan from which they sprung.
One of ours, who had a chieftain-like look, was a MacGregor, related to
Rob Roy. The fourth descendant in a direct line, now inhabits the Rob
Roy mansion, at Glengyle, a valley at the head of the lake. A small
steamboat was put upon Loch Katrine a short time ago, but the boatmen,
jealous of this new invasion of their privilege, one night towed her out
to the middle of the lake and there sunk her.

Near the point of Brianchoil is a very small island with a few trees
upon it, of which the boatman related a story that was new to me. He
said an eccentric individual, many years ago, built his house upon
it--but it was soon beaten down by the winds and waves. Having built it
up with like fortune several times, he at last desisted, saying, "bought
wisdom was the best;" since when it has been called the Island of
Wisdom. On the shore below, the boatman showed us his cottage. The whole
family were out at the door to witness our progress; he hoisted a flag,
and when we came opposite, they exchanged shouts in Gaelic. As our men
resumed their oars again, we assisted in giving three cheers, which made
the echoes of Benvenue ring again. Some one observed his dog, looking
after us from a projecting rock, when he called out to him, "go home,
you brute!" We asked him why he did not speak Gaelic also to his dog.

"Very few dogs, indeed," said he, "understand Gaelic, but they all
understand English. And we therefore all use English when speaking to
our dogs; indeed, I know some persons, who know nothing of English, that
speak it to their dogs!"

They then sang, in a rude manner, a Gaelic song. The only word I could
distinguish was Inch Caillach, the burying place of Clan Alpine. They
told us it was the answer of a Highland girl to a foreign lord, who
wished to make her his bride. Perhaps, like the American Indian, she
would not leave the graves of her fathers. As we drew near the eastern
end of the lake, the scenery became far more beautiful. The Trosachs
opened before us. Ben Ledi looked down over the "forehead bare" of Ben
An, and, as we turned a rocky point, Ellen's Isle rose up in front. It
is a beautiful little turquoise in the silver setting of Loch Katrine.
The northern side alone is accessible, all the others being rocky and
perpendicular, and thickly grown with trees. We rounded the island to
the little bay, bordered by the silver strand, above which is the rock
from which Fitz-James wound his horn, and shot under an ancient oak
which flung its long grey arms over the water; we here found a flight of
rocky steps, leading to the top, where stood the bower erected by Lady
Willoughby D'Eresby, to correspond with Scott's description. Two or
three blackened beams are all that remain of it, having been burned down
some years ago, by the carelessness of a traveler.

The mountains stand all around, like giants, to "sentinel this enchanted
land." On leaving the island, we saw the Goblin's Cave, in the side of
Benvenue, called by the Gaels, "Coirnan-Uriskin." Near it is
Beal-nam-bo, the pass of cattle, overhung with grey weeping birch trees.
Here the boatmen stopped to let us hear the fine echo, and the names of
"Rob Roy," and "Roderick Dhu," were sent back to us apparently as loud
as they were given. The description of Scott is wonderfully exact,
though the forest that feathered o'er the sides of Benvenue, has since
been cut down and sold by the Duke of Montrose. When we reached the end
of the lake it commenced raining, and we hastened on through the pass of
Beal-an-Duine, scarcely taking time to glance at the scenery, till Loch
Achray appeared through the trees, and on its banks the ivy-grown front
of the inn of Ardcheancrochan, with its unpronounceable name.




CHAPTER IV.

THE BURNS FESTIVAL.


We passed a glorious summer morning on the banks of Loch Katrine. The
air was pure, fresh and balmy, and the warm sunshine glowed upon forest
and lake, upon dark crag and purple mountain-top. The lake was a scene
in fairy-land. Returning over the rugged battle-plain in the jaws of the
Trosachs, we passed the wild, lonely valley of Glenfinlas and Lanric
Mead, at the head of Loch Vennachar, rounding the foot of Ben Ledi to
Coilantogle Ford. We saw the desolate hills of Uam-var over which the
stag fled from his lair in Glenartney, and keeping on through Callander,
stopped for the night at a little inn on the banks of the Teith. The
next day we walked through Doune, over the lowlands to Stirling.
Crossing Allan Water and the Forth, we climbed Stirling Castle and
looked on the purple peaks of the Ochill Mountains, the far Grampians,
and the battle-fields of Bannockburn and Sheriff Muir. Our German
comrade, feeling little interest in the memory of the poet-ploughman,
left in the steamboat for Edinburg; we mounted an English coach and rode
to Falkirk, where we took the cars for Glasgow in order to attend the
Burns Festival, on the 6th of August.

This was a great day for Scotland--the assembling of all classes to do
honor to the memory of her peasant-bard. And right fitting was it, too,
that such a meeting should be hold on the banks of the Doon, the stream
of which he has sung so sweetly, within sight of the cot where he was
born, the beautiful monument erected by his countrymen, and more than
all, beside "Alloway's witch-haunted wall!" One would think old Albyn
would rise up at the call, and that from the wild hunters of the
northern hills to the shepherds of the Cheviots, half her honest
yeomanry would be there, to render gratitude to the memory of the sweet
bard who was one of them, and who gave their wants and their woes such
eloquent utterance.

For months before had the proposition been made to hold a meeting on the
Doon, similar to the Shakspeare Festival on the Avon, and the 10th of
July was first appointed for the day, but owing to the necessity of
further time for preparation, it was postponed until the 6th of August.
The Earl of Eglintoun was chosen Chairman, and Professor Wilson
Vice-Chairman; in addition to this, all the most eminent British authors
were invited to attend. A pavilion, capable of containing two thousand
persons, had been erected near the monument, in a large field, which was
thrown open to the public. Other preparations were made and the meeting
was expected to be of the most interesting character.

When we arose it was raining, and I feared that the weather might dampen
somewhat the pleasures of the day, as it had done to the celebrated
tournament at Eglintoun Castle. We reached the station in time for the
first train, and sped in the face of the wind over the plains of
Ayrshire, which, under such a gloomy sky, looked most desolate. We ran
some distance along the coast, having a view of the Hills of Arran, and
reached Ayr about nine o'clock. We came first to the New Bridge, which
had a triumphal arch in the middle, and the lines, from the "Twa Brigs
of Ayr:"

    "Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street,
    Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,
    Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and lime,
    Compare wi' bonnie brigs o' modern time?"

While on the arch of the 'old brig' was the reply:

    "I'll be a brig when ye're a shapeless stane."

As we advanced into the town, the decorations became more frequent. The
streets were crowded with people carrying banners and wreaths, many of
the houses were adorned with green boughs and the vessels in the harbor
hung out all their flags. We saw the Wallace Tower, a high Gothic
building, having in front a statue of Wallace leaning on his sword, by
Thom, a native of Ayr, and on our way to the green, where the procession
was to assemble, passed under the triumphal arch thrown across the
street opposite the inn where Tarn O'Shanter caroused so long with
Souter Johnny. Leaving the companies to form on the long meadow
bordering the shore, we set out for the Doon, three miles distant.
Beggars were seated at regular distances along the road, uttering the
most dolorous whinings. Both bridges were decorated in the same manner,
with miserable looking objects, keeping up, during the whole day, a
continual lamentation. Persons are prohibited from begging in England
and Scotland, but I suppose, this being an extraordinary day, license
was given them as a favor, to beg free. I noticed that the women, with
their usual kindness of heart, bestowed nearly all the alms which these
unfortunate objects received. The night before, as I was walking through
the streets of Glasgow, a young man of the poorer class, very scantily
dressed, stepped up to me and begged me to listen to him for a moment.
He spoke hurriedly, and agitatedly, begging me, in God's name, to give
him something, however little. I gave him what few pence I had with me,
when he grasped my hand with a quick motion, saying: "Sir, you little
think how much you have done for me." I was about to inquire more
particularly into his situation, but he had disappeared among the crowd.

We passed the "cairn where hunters found the murdered bairn," along a
pleasant road to the Burns cottage, where it was spanned by a
magnificent triumphal arch of evergreens and flowers. To the disgrace of
Scotland, this neat little thatched cot, where Burns passed the first
seven years of his life, is now occupied by somebody, who has stuck up a
sign over the door, "_licensed to retail spirits, to be drunk on the
premises_;" and accordingly the rooms were crowded full of people, all
drinking. There was a fine original portrait of Burns in one room, and
in the old fashioned kitchen we saw the recess where he was born. The
hostess looked towards us as if to inquire what we would drink, and I
hastened away--there was profanity in the thought. But by this time, the
bell of Old Alloway, which still hangs in its accustomed place, though
the walls only are left, began tolling, and we obeyed the call. The
attachment of the people for this bell, is so great, that a short time
ago, when it was ordered to be removed, the inhabitants rose en masse,
and prevented it. The ruin, which is close by the road, stands in the
middle of the church-yard, and the first thing I saw, on going in the
gate, was the tomb of the father of Burns. I looked in the old window,
but the interior was filled with rank weeds, and overshadowed by a young
tree, which had grown nearly to the eaves.

The crowd was now fast gathering in the large field, in the midst of
which the pavilion was situated. We went down by the beautiful monument
to Burns, to the "Auld Brig o' Doon," which was spanned by an arch of
evergreens, containing a representation of Tam O'Shanter and his grey
mare, pursued by the witches. It had been arranged that the procession
was to pass over the old and new bridges, and from thence by a temporary
bridge over the hedge into the field. At this latter place a stand was
erected for the sons of Burns, the officers of the day, and
distinguished guests. Here was a beautiful specimen of English
exclusiveness. The space adjoining the pavilion was fenced around, and
admittance denied at first to any, except those who had tickets for the
dinner, which, the price being fifteen shillings, entirely prevented the
humble laborers, who, more than all, should participate on the occasion,
from witnessing the review of the procession by the sons of Burns, and
hearing the eloquent speeches of Professor Wilson and Lord Eglintoun.
Thus, of the many thousands who were in the field, but a few hundred who
were crowded between the bridge and the railing around the pavilion,
enjoyed the interesting spectacle. By good fortune, I obtained a stand,
where I had an excellent view of the scene. The sons of Burns were in
the middle of the platform, with Eglintoun on the right, and Wilson on
their left. Mrs. Begg, sister of the Poet, with her daughters, stood by
the Countess of Eglintoun. She was a plain, benevolent looking woman,
dressed in black, and appearing still active and vigorous, though she is
upwards of eighty years old. She bears some likeness, especially in the
expression of her eye, to the Poet. Robert Burns, the oldest son,
appeared to me to have a strong resemblance of his father, and it is
said he is the only one who remembers his face. He has for a long time
had an office under Government, in London. The others have but lately
returned from a residence of twenty years in India. Professor Wilson
appeared to enter into the spirit of the scene better than any of them.
He shouted and waved his hat, and, with his fine, broad forehead, his
long brown locks already mixed with gray, streaming over his shoulders,
and that eagle eye glancing over the vast assemblage, seemed a real
Christopher North, yet full of the fire and vigor of youth--"a
gray-haired, happy boy!"

About half of the procession consisted of lodges of masons, all of whom
turned out on the occasion, as Burns was one of the fraternity. I was
most interested in several companies of shepherds, from the hills, with
their crooks and plaids; a body of archers in Lincoln green, with a
handsome chief at their head, and some Highlanders in their most
picturesque of costumes. As one of the companies, which carried a
mammoth thistle in a box, came near the platform, Wilson snatched a
branch, regardless of its pricks, and placed it on his coat. After this
pageant, which could not have been much less than three miles long, had
passed, a band was stationed on the platform in the centre of the field,
around which it formed in a circle, and the whole company sang, "Ye
Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon." Just at this time, a person dressed to
represent Tam O'Shanter, mounted on a gray mare, issued from a field
near the Burns Monument and rode along towards Alloway Kirk, from which,
when he approached it, a whole legion of witches sallied out and
commenced a hot pursuit. They turned back, however, at the keystone of
the bridge, the witch with the "cutty sark" holding up in triumph the
abstracted tail of Maggie. Soon after this the company entered the
pavilion, and the thousands outside were entertained, as an especial
favor, by the band of the 87th Regiment, while from the many liquor
booths around the field, they could enjoy themselves in another way.

We went up to the Monument, which was of more particular interest to us,
from the relics within, but admission was denied to all. Many persons
were collected around the gate, some of whom, having come from a great
distance, were anxious to see it; but the keeper only said, such were
the orders and he could not disobey them. Among the crowd, a grandson of
the original Tam O'Shanter was shown to us. He was a raw-looking boy of
nineteen or twenty, wearing a shepherd's cap and jacket, and muttered
his disapprobation very decidedly, at not being able to visit the
Monument.

There were one or two showers during the day, and the sky, all the time,
was dark and lowering, which was unfavorable for the celebration; but
all were glad enough that the rain kept aloof till the ceremonies were
nearly over. The speeches delivered at the dinner, which appeared in the
papers next morning, are undoubtedly very eloquent. I noticed in the
remarks of Robert Burns, in reply to Professor Wilson, an acknowledgment
which the other speakers forgot. He said, "The Sons of Burns have
grateful hearts, and to the last hour of their existence, they will
remember the honor that has been paid them this day, by the noble, the
lovely and the talented, of their native land--by men of genius and
kindred spirit from our sister land--and lastly, they owe their thanks
to the inhabitants of the far distant west, a country of a great, free,
and kindred people! (loud cheers.)" In connexion with this subject, I
saw an anecdote of the Poet, yesterday, which is not generally known.
During his connexion with the Excise, he was one day at a party, where
the health of Pitt, then minister, was proposed, as "his master and
theirs." He immediately turned down his glass and said, "I will give you
the health of a far greater and better man--GEORGE WASHINGTON!"

We left the field early and went back through the muddy streets of Ayr.
The street before the railway office was crowded, and there was so dense
a mass of people on the steps, that it seemed almost impossible to get
near. Seeing no other chance, I managed to take my stand on the lowest
steps, where the pressure of the crowd behind and the working of the
throng on the steps, raised me off my feet, and in about a quarter of an
hour carried me, compressed into the smallest possible space, up the
steps to the door, where the crowd burst in by fits, like water rushing
out of a bottle. We esteemed ouvselves fortunate in getting room to
stand in an open car, where, after a two hours' ride through the wind
and pelting rain, we arrived at Glasgow.




CHAPTER V.

WALK FROM EDINBURG OVER THE BORDER AND ARRIVAL AT LONDON.


We left Glasgow on the morning after returning from the Burns Festival,
taking passage in the open cars for Edinburg, for six shillings. On
leaving the depot, we plunged into the heart of the hill on which
Glasgow Cathedral stands and were whisked through darkness and sulphury
smoke to daylight again. The cars bore us past a spur of the Highlands,
through a beautiful country where women were at work in the fields, to
Linlithgow, the birth-place of Queen Mary. The majestic ruins of its
once-proud palace, stand on a green meadow behind the town. In another
hour we were walking through Edinburg, admiring its palace-like
edifices, and stopping every few minutes to gaze up at some lofty
monument. Really, thought I, we call Baltimore the "Monumental City" for
its two marble columns, and here is Edinburg with one at every
street-corner! These, too, not in the midst of glaring red buildings,
where they seem to have been accidentally dropped, but framed in by
lofty granite mansions, whose long vistas make an appropriate background
to the picture.

We looked from Calton Hill on Salisbury Crags and over the Firth of
Forth, then descended to dark old Holyrood, where the memory of lovely
Mary lingers like a stray sunbeam in her cold halls, and the fair,
boyish face of Rizzio looks down from the canvass on the armor of his
murderer. We threaded the Canongate and climbed to the Castle; and
finally, after a day and a half's sojourn, buckled on our knapsacks and
marched out of the Northern Athens. In a short time the tall spire of
Dalkeith appeared above the green wood, and we saw to the right, perched
on the steep banks of the Esk, the picturesque cottage of Hawthornden,
where Drummond once lived in poetic solitude. We made haste to cross the
dreary waste of the Muirfoot Hills before nightfall, from the highest
summit of which we took a last view of Edinburg Castle and the Salisbury
Crags, then blue in the distance. Far to the east were the hills of
Lammermuir and the country of Mid-Lothian lay before us. It was all
_Scott_-land. The inn of Torsonce, beside the Gala Water, was our
resting-place for the night. As we approached Galashiels the next
morning, where the bed of the silver Gala is nearly emptied by a number
of dingy manufactories, the hills opened, disclosing the sweet vale of
the Tweed, guarded by the triple peak of the Eildon, at whose base lay
nestled the village of Melrose.

I stopped at a bookstore to purchase a view of the Abbey; to my surprise
nearly half the works were by American authors. There wore Bryant,
Longfellow, Channing, Emerson, Dana, Ware and many others. The
bookseller told me he had sold more of Ware's Letters than any other
book in his store, "and also," to use his own words, "an immense number
of the great Dr. Channing." I have seen English editions of Percival,
Willis, Whittier and Mrs. Sigourney, but Bancroft and Prescott are
classed among the "standard _British_ historians."

Crossing the Gala we ascended a hill on the road to Selkirk, and behold!
the Tweed ran below, and opposite, in the midst of embowering trees
planted by the hand of Scott, rose the grey halls of Abbotsford. We went
down a lane to the banks of the swift stream, but finding no ferry,
B---- and I, as it looked very shallow, thought we might save a long
walk by wading across. F---- preferred hunting for a boat; we two set
out together, with our knapsacks on our backs, and our boots in our
hands. The current was ice-cold and very swift, and as the bed was
covered with loose stones, it required the greatest care to stand
upright. Looking at the bottom, through the rapid water, made my head so
giddy, I was forced to stop and shut my eyes; my friend, who had firmer
nerves, went plunging on to a deeper and swifter part, where the
strength of the current made him stagger very unpleasantly. I called to
him to return; the next thing I saw, he gave a plunge and went down to
the shoulder in the cold flood. While he was struggling with a
frightened expression of face to recover his footing, I leaned on my
staff and laughed till I was on the point of falling also. To crown our
mortification, F---- had found a ferry a few yards higher up and was on
the opposite shore, watching us wade back again, my friend with dripping
clothes and boots full of water. I could not forgive the pretty Scotch
damsel who rowed us across, the mischievous lurking smile which told
that she too had witnessed the adventure.

We found a foot-path on the other side, which led through a young forest
to Abbotsford. Rude pieces of sculpture, taken from Melrose Abbey, were
scattered around the gate, some half buried in the earth and overgrown
with weeds. The niches in the walls were filled with pieces of
sculpture, and an antique marble greyhound reposed in the middle of the
court yard. We rang the bell in an outer vestibule, ornamented with
several pairs of antlers, when a lady appeared, who, from her
appearance, I have no doubt was Mrs. Ormand, the "Duenna of Abbotsford,"
so humorously described by D'Arlincourt, in his "Three Kingdoms." She
ushered us into the entrance hall, which has a magnificent ceiling of
carved oak and is lighted by lofty stained windows. An effigy of a
knight in armor stood at either end, one holding a huge two-handed sword
found on Bosworth Field; the walls were covered with helmets and
breastplates of the olden time.

Among the curiosities in the Armory are Napoleon's pistols, the
blunderbuss of Hofer, Rob Roy's purse and gun, and the offering box of
Queen Mary. Through the folding doors between the dining-room,
drawing-room and library, is a fine vista, terminated by a niche, in
which stands Chantrey's bust of Scott. The ceilings are of carved
Scottish oak and the doors of American cedar. Adjoining the library is
his study, the walls of which are covered with books; the doors and
windows are double, to render it quiet and undisturbed. His books and
inkstand are on the table and his writing-chair stands before it, as if
he had left them but a moment before. In a little closet adjoining,
where he kept his private manuscripts, are the clothes he last wore, his
cane and belt, to which a hammer and small axe are attached, and his
sword. A narrow staircase led from the study to his sleeping room above,
by which he could come down at night and work while his family slept.
The silence about the place is solemn and breathless, as if it waited to
be broken by his returning footstep. I felt an awe in treading these
lonely halls, like that which impressed me before the grave of
Washington--a feeling that hallowed the spot, as if there yet lingered a
low vibration of the lyre, though the minstrel had departed forever!

Plucking a wild rose that grew near the walls, I left Abbotsford,
embosomed among the trees, and turned into a green lane that led down to
Melrose. We went immediately to the Abbey, in the lower part of the
village, near the Tweed. As I approached the gate, the porteress came
out, and having scrutinized me rather sharply, asked my name. I told
her;--"well," she added, "there is a _prospect_ here for you." Thinking
she alluded to the ruin, I replied: "Yes, the view is certainly very
fine." "Oh! I don't mean that," she replied, "a young gentleman left a
prospect here for you!"--whereupon she brought out a spy-glass, which I
recognized us one that our German comrade had given to me. He had gone
on, and hoped to meet us at Jedburgh.

Melrose is the finest remaining specimen of Gothic architecture in
Scotland. Some of the sculptured flowers in the cloister arches are
remarkably beautiful and delicate, and the two windows--the south and
east oriels--are of a lightness and grace of execution really
surprising. We saw the tomb of Michael Scott, of King Alexander II, and
that of the Douglas, marked with a sword. The heart of Bruce is supposed
to have been buried beneath the high altar. The chancel is all open to
the sky, and rooks build their nests among the wild ivy that climbs over
the crumbling arches. One of these came tamely down and perched upon the
hand of our fair guide. By a winding stair in one of the towers we
mounted to the top of the arch and looked down on the grassy floor. I
sat on the broken pillar, which Scott always used for a seat when he
visited the Abbey, and read the disinterring of the magic book, in the
"Lay of the Last Minstrel." I never comprehended its full beauty till
then: the memory of Melrose will give it a thrilling interest, in the
future. When we left, I was willing to say, with the Minstrel:

    "Was never scene so sad and fair!"

After seeing the home and favorite haunt of Scott, we felt a wish to
stand by his grave, but we had Ancrum Moor to pass before night, and the
Tweed was between us and Dryburgh Abbey. We did not wish to try another
watery adventure, and therefore walked on to the village of Ancrum,
where a gate-keeper on the road gave us lodging and good fare, for a
moderate price. Many of this class practise this double employment, and
the economical traveller, who looks more to comfort than luxury, will
not fail to patronize them.

Next morning we took a foot-path over the hills to Jedburgh. From the
summit there was a lovely view of the valley of the Teviot, with the
blue Cheviots in the distance. I thought of Pringle's beautiful
farewell:

    "Our native land, our native vale,
       A long, a last adieu,
     farewell to bonny Teviot-dale,
       And Cheviot's mountains blue!"

The poet was born in the valley below, and one that looks upon its
beauty cannot wonder how his heart clung to the scenes he was leaving.
We saw Jedburgh and its majestic old Abbey, and ascended the valley of
the Jed towards the Cheviots. The hills, covered with woods of a
richness and even gorgeous beauty of foliage, shut out this lovely glen
completely from the world. I found myself continually coveting the
lonely dwellings that were perched on the rocky heights, or nestled,
like a fairy pavilion, in the lap of a grove. These forests formerly
furnished the wood for the celebrated Jedwood axe, used in the Border
forays.

As we continued ascending, the prospect behind us widened, till we
reached the summit of the Carter Fell, whence there is a view of great
extent and beauty. The Eildon Hills, though twenty-five miles distant,
seemed in the foreground of the picture. With a glass, Edinburgh Castle
might be seen over the dim outline of the Muirfoot Hills. After crossing
the border, we passed the scene of the encounter between Percy and
Douglass, celebrated in "Chevy Chase," and at the lonely inn of
Whitelee, in the valley below, took up our quarters for the night.

Travellers have described the Cheviots as being bleak and uninteresting.
Although they are bare and brown, to me the scenery was of a character
of beauty entirely original. They are not rugged and broken like the
Highlands, but lift their round backs gracefully from the plain, while
the more distant ranges are clad in many an airy hue. Willis quaintly
and truly remarks, that travellers only tell you the picture produced in
their own brain by what they see, otherwise the world would be like a
pawnbroker's shop, where each traveller wears the cast-off clothes of
others. Therefore let no one, of a gloomy temperament, journeying over
the Cheviots in dull November, arraign me for having falsely praised
their beauty.

I was somewhat amused with seeing a splendid carriage with footmen and
outriders, crossing the mountain, the glorious landscape full in view,
containing a richly dressed lady, _fast asleep!_ It is no uncommon thing
to meet carriages in the Highlands, in which the occupants are
comfortably reading, while being whirled through the finest scenery. And
_apropos_ of this subject, my German friend related to me an incident.
His brother was travelling on the Rhine, and when in the midst of the
grandest scenes, met a carriage containing an English gentleman and
lady, both asleep, while on the seat behind was stationed an artist,
sketching away with all his might. He asked the latter the reason of his
industry, when he answered, "Oh! my lord wishes to see every night what
he has passed during the day, and so I sketch as we go along!"

The hills, particularly on the English side, are covered with flocks of
sheep, and lazy shepherds lay basking in the sun, among the purple
heather, with their shaggy black dogs beside them. On many of the hills
are landmarks, by which, when the snow has covered all the trucks, they
can direct their way. After walking many miles through green valleys,
down which flowed the Red Water, its very name telling of the conflicts
which had crimsoned its tide, we came to the moors, and ten miles of
blacker, drearier waste I never saw. Before entering them we passed the
pretty little village of Otterburn, near the scene of the battle. I
brought away a wild flower that grew on soil enriched by the blood of
the Percys. On the village inn, is their ancient coat of arms, a lion
rampant, on a field of gold, with the motto, "_Esperance en Dieu_."
Scarcely a house or a tree enlivened the black waste, and even the road
was marked on each side by high poles, to direct the traveller in
winter. We were glad when at length the green fields came again in
sight, and the little village of Whelpington Knowes, with its old
ivy-grown church tower, welcomed us after the lonely walk.

As one specimen of the intelligence of this part of England, we saw a
board conspicuously posted at the commencement of a private road,
declaring that "all persons travelling this way will be _persecuted_."
As it led to a _church_, however, there may have been a design in the
expression.

On the fifth day after leaving Edinburgh, we reached a hill, overlooking
the valley of the Tyne and the German Ocean, as sunset was reddening in
the west. A cloud of coal-smoke made us aware of the vicinity of
Newcastle. On the summit of the hill a large cattle fair was being held,
and crowds of people were gathered in and around a camp of gaudily
decorated tents. Fires were kindled here and there, and drinking,
carousing and horse-racing were flourishing in full vigor.

We set out one morning to hunt the Roman Wall. Passing the fine
buildings in the centre of the city and the lofty monument to Earl Grey,
we went towards the western gate and soon came to the ruins of a
building, about whose origin there could be no doubt. It stood there,
blackened by the rust of ages, a remnant of power passed away. There was
no mistaking the massive round tower, with its projecting ornaments,
such as are often seen in the ruder works of the Romans. On each side a
fragment of wall remained standing, and there appeared to be a chamber
in the interior, which was choked up with rubbish. There is another
tower, much higher, in a public square in another part of the city, a
portion of which is fitted up as a dwelling for the family which takes
care of it; but there was such a ridiculous contrast between the
ivy-grown top, and the handsome modern windows and doors of the lower
story, that it did not impress me half as much as the other, with all
its neglect. These are the farthest limits of that power whose mighty
works I hope hereafter to view at the seat of her grandeur and glory.

I witnessed a scene at Newcastle that cannot soon be forgotten; as it
showed more plainly than I had before an opportunity of observing, the
state to which the laboring classes of England are reduced. Hearing
singing in the street, under my window, one morning, I looked out and
saw a body of men, apparently of the lower class, but decent and sober
looking, who were singing in a rude and plaintive strain some ballad,
the purport of which I could not understand. On making inquiry, I
discovered it was part of a body of miners, who, about eighteen weeks
before, in consequence of not being able to support their families with
the small pittance allowed them, had "struck" for higher wages. This
their employers refused to give them, and sent to Wales, where they
obtained workmen at the former price. The houses these laborers had
occupied were all taken from them, and for eighteen weeks they had no
other means of subsistence than the casual charity given them for
singing the story of their wrongs. It made my blood boil to bear those
tones, wrung from the heart of poverty by the hand of tyranny. The
ignorance, permitted by the government, causes an unheard amount of
misery and degradation. We heard afterwards in the streets, another
company who played on musical instruments. Beneath the proud swell of
England's martial airs, there sounded to my ears a tone whose gathering
murmur will make itself heard ere long by the dull cars of Power.

At last at the appointed time, we found ourselves on board the "London
Merchant," in the muddy Tyne, waiting for the tide to rise high enough
to permit us to descend the river. There is great competition among the
steamboats this summer, and the price of passage to London is reduced to
five and ten shillings. The second cabin, however, is a place of
tolerable comfort, and as the steward had promised to keep berths for
us, we engaged passage. Following the windings of the narrow river, we
passed Sunderland and Tynemouth, where it expands into the German Ocean.
The water was barely stirred by a gentle wind, and little resembled the
stormy sea I expected to find it. We glided over the smooth surface,
watching the blue line of the distant shore till dark, when I went below
expecting to enjoy a few hours' oblivion. But the faithless steward had
given up the promised berth to another, and it was only with difficulty
that I secured a seat by the cabin table, where I dozed half the night
with my head on my arms. It grew at last too close and wearisome; I
went up on deck and lay down on the windlass, taking care to balance
myself well before going to sleep. The earliest light of dawn awoke me
to a consciousness of damp clothes and bruised limbs. We were in sight
of the low shore the whole day, sometimes seeing the dim outline of a
church, or group of trees over the downs or flat beds of sand, which
border the eastern coast of England. About dark, the red light of the
Nore was seen, and we hoped before many hours to be in London. The
lights of Gravesend were passed, but about ten o'clock, as we entered
the narrow channel of the Thames, we struck another steamboat in the
darkness, and were obliged to cast anchor for some time. When I went on
deck in the gray light of morning again, we were gliding up a narrow,
muddy river, between rows of gloomy buildings, with many vessels lying
at anchor. It grew lighter, till, as we turned a point, right before, me
lay a vast crowd of vessels, and in the distance, above the wilderness
of buildings, stood a dim, gigantic dome in the sky; what a bound my
heart gave at the sight! And the tall pillar that stood near it--I did
not need a second glance to recognize the Monument. I knew the majestic
bridge that spanned the river above; but on the right bank stood a
cluster of massive buildings, crowned with many a turret, that attracted
my eye. A crowd of old associations pressed bewilderingly upon the mind,
to see standing there, grim and dark with many a bloody page of
England's history--the Tower of London! The morning sky was as yet but
faintly obscured by the coal-smoke, and in the misty light of coming
sunrise, all objects seemed grander than their wont. In spite of the
thrilling interest of the scene, I could not help thinking of Byron's
ludicrous but most expressive description:

    "A mighty mass of brick and smoke and shipping,
    Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye
    Can reach; with here and there a sail just skipping
    In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
    Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping
    On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy;
    A huge dun cupola, like a fool's-cap crown
    On a fool's head,--and there is London town."




CHAPTER VI.

SOME OF THE "SIGHTS" OF LONDON.


In the course of time we came to anchor in the stream; skiffs from the
shore pulled alongside, and after some little quarrelling, we were
safely deposited in one, with a party who desired to be landed at the
Tower Stairs. The dark walls frowned above us as we mounted from the
water and passed into an open square on the outside of the moat. The
laborers were about commencing work, the fashionable _day_ having just
closed, but there was still noise and bustle enough in the streets,
particularly when we reached Whitechapel, part of the great
thoroughfare, extending through the heart of London to Westminster Abbey
and the Parliament buildings. Further on, through Leadenhall street and
Fleet street--what a world! Here come the ever-thronging, ever-rolling
waves of life, pressing and whirling on in their tumultuous career. Here
day and night pours the stream of human beings, seeming amid the roar
and din and clatter of the passing vehicles, like the tide of some great
combat. How lonely it makes one to stand still and feel that of all the
mighty throng which divides itself around him, not a being knows or
cares for him! What knows he too of the thousands who pass him by? How
many who bear the impress of godlike virtue, or hide beneath a goodly
countenance a heart black with crime? How many fiery spirits, all
glowing with hope for the yet unclouded future, or brooding over a
darkened and desolate past in the agony of despair? There is a sublimity
in this human Niagara that makes one look on his own race with something
of awe.

We walked down the Thames, through the narrow streets of Wapping, Over
the mouth of the Tunnel is a large circular building, with a dome to
light the entrance below. Paying the fee of a penny, we descended by a
winding staircase to the bottom, which is seventy-three feet below the
surface. The carriage-way, still unfinished, will extend further into
the city. From the bottom the view of the two arches of the Tunnel,
brilliantly lighted with gas, is very fine; it has a much less heavy and
gloomy appearance than I expected. As we walked along under the bed of
the river, two or three girls at one end began playing on the French
horn and bugle, and the echoes, when not too deep to confuse the melody,
were remarkably beautiful. Between the arches of the division separating
the two passages, are shops, occupied by venders of fancy articles,
views of the Tunnel, engravings, &c. In the middle is a small printing
press, where, a sheet containing a description of the whole work is
printed for those who desire it. As I was no stranger to this art, I
requested the boy to let me print one myself, but he had such a bad
roller I did not succeed in getting a good impression. The air within is
somewhat damp, but fresh and agreeably cool, and one can scarcely
realize in walking along the light passage, that a river is rolling
above his head. The immense solidity and compactness of the structure
precludes the danger of accident, each of the sides being arched
outwards, so that the heaviest pressure only strengthens the whole. It
will long remain a noble monument of human daring and ingenuity.

St. Paul's is on a scale of grandeur excelling every thing I have yet
seen. The dome seems to stand in the sky, as you look up to it; the
distance from which you view it, combined with the atmosphere of London,
give it a dim, shadowy appearance, that perfectly startles one with its
immensity. The roof from which the dome springs is itself as high as the
spires of most other churches--blackened for two hundred years with the
coal-smoke of London, it stands like a relic of the giant architecture
of the early world. The interior is what one would expect to behold,
after viewing the outside. A maze of grand arches on every side,
encompasses the dome, which you gaze up at, as at the sky; and from
every pillar and wall look down the marble forms of the dead. There is
scarcely a vacant niche left in all this mighty hall, so many are the
statues that meet one on every side. With the exceptions of John Howard,
Sir Astley Cooper and Wren, whose monument is the church itself, they
are all to military men. I thought if they had all been removed except
Howard's, it would better have suited such a temple, and the great soul
it commemorated.

I never was more impressed with the grandeur of human invention, than
when ascending the dome. I could with difficulty conceive the means by
which such a mighty edifice had been lifted into the air. That small
frame of Sir Christopher Wren must have contained a mind capable of vast
conceptions. The dome is like the summit of a mountain; so wide is the
prospect, and so great the pile upon which you stand. London lay beneath
us, like an ant-hill, with the black insects swarming to and fro in
their long avenues, the sound of their employments coming up like the
roar of the sea. A cloud of coal-smoke hung over it, through which many
a pointed spire was thrust up; sometimes the wind would blow it aside
for a moment, and the thousands of red roofs would shine out clearer.
The bridged Thames, covered with craft of all sizes, wound beneath us
like a ringed and spotted serpent. The scene was like an immense
circular picture in the blue frame of the hills around.

Continuing our way up Fleet street, which, notwithstanding the gaiety of
its shops and its constant bustle, has an antique appearance, we came to
the Temple Bar, the western boundary of the ancient city. In the inside
of the middle arch, the old gates are still standing. From this point we
entered the new portion of the city, which wore an air of increasing
splendor as we advanced. The appearance of the Strand and Trafalgar
Square is truly magnificent. Fancy every house in Broadway a store, all
built of light granite, the Park stripped of all its trees and paved
with granite, and a lofty column in the centre, double the crowd and the
tumult of business, and you will have some idea of the view.

It was a relief to get into St. James's Park, among the trees and
flowers again. Here, beautiful winding walks led around little lakes, in
which were hundreds of water-fowl, swimming. Groups of merry children
were sporting on the green lawn, enjoying their privilege of roaming
every where at will, while the older bipeds were confined to the regular
walks. At the western end stood Buckingham Palace, looking over the
trees towards St. Paul's; through the grove on the eminence above, the
towers of St. James's could be seen. But there was a dim building, with
two lofty square towers, decorated with a profusion of pointed Gothic
pinnacles, that I looked at with more interest than these appendages of
royalty. I could not linger long in its vicinity, but going back again
by the Horse Guards, took the road to _Westminster Abbey_.

We approached by the general entrance, Poet's Corner. I hardly stopped
to look at the elaborate exterior of Henry VIIth's Chapel, but passed on
to the door. On entering, the first thing that met my eyes were the
words, "OH RARE BEN JONSON," under his bust. Near by stood the monuments
of Spenser and Gay, and a few paces further looked down the sublime
countenance of Milton. Never was a spot so full of intense interest. The
light was just dim enough to give it a solemn, religious appearance,
making the marble forms of poets and philosophers so shadowy and
impressive, that I felt as if standing in their living presence. Every
step called up some mind linked with the associations of my childhood.
There was the gentle feminine countenance of Thompson, and the majestic
head of Dryden; Addison with his classic features, and Gray, full of the
fire of lofty thought. In another chamber, I paused long before the
ashes of Shakspeare; and while looking at the monument of Garrick,
started to find that I stood upon his grave. What a glorious galaxy of
genius is here collected--what a constellation of stars whose light is
immortal! The mind is completely fettered by their spirit. Everything is
forgotten but the mighty dead, who still "rule us from their urns."

The Chapel of Henry VII., which we next entered, is one of the most
elaborate specimens of Gothic workmanship in the world. If the first
idea of the Gothic arch sprung from observing the forms of trees, this
chapel must resemble the first conceptions of that order, for the fluted
columns rise up like tall trees, branching out at the top into spreading
capitals covered with leaves, and supporting arches of the ceiling
resembling a leafy roof.

The side-chapels are filled with tombs of knightly families, the husband
and wife lying on their backs on the tombs, with their hands clasped,
while their children, about the size of dolls, are kneeling around.
Numberless are the Barons and Earls and Dukes, whose grim effigies stare
from their tombs. In opposite chapels are the tombs of Mary and
Elizabeth, and near the former that of Darnley. After having visited
many of the scenes of her life, it was with no ordinary emotion that I
stood by the sepulchre of Mary. How differently one looks upon it and
upon that of the proud Elizabeth!

We descended to the Chapel of Edward the Confessor, within the splendid
shrine of which repose his ashes. Here we were shown the chair on which
the English monarchs have been crowned for several hundred years, Under
the seat is the stone, brought from the Abbey of Scone, whereon the
Kings of Scotland were crowned. The chair is of oak, carved and hacked
over with names, and on the bottom some one has recorded his name with
the fact that, he once slept in it. We sat down and rested in it without
ceremony. Passing along an aisle leading to the grand hall, we saw the
tomb of Aymer de Valence, a knight of the Crusades. Near here is the
hall where the Knights of the order of Bath met. Over each seat their
dusty banners are still hanging, each with its crest, and their armor is
rusting upon the wall. It seemed like a banqueting hall of the olden
time, where the knights had left their seats for a moment vacant.
Entering the nave, we were lost in the wilderness of sculpture. Here
stood the forms of Pitt, Fox, Burke, Sheridan and Watts, from the
chisels of Chantry, Bacon and Westmacott. Further down were Sir Isaac
Newton and Sir Godfrey Kneller--opposite Andre, and Paoli, the Italian,
who died here in exile. How can I convey an idea of the scene?
Notwithstanding all the descriptions I had read, I was totally
unprepared for the reality, nor could I have anticipated the hushed and
breathless interest with which I paced the dim aisles, gazing, at every
step, on the last resting place of some great and familiar name. A place
so sacred to all who inherit the English tongue, is worthy of a special
pilgrimage across the deep. To those who are unable to visit it, a
description may be interesting; but so far does it fall short of the
scene itself, that if I thought it would induce a few of our wealthy
idlers, or even those who, like myself, must travel with toil and
privation to come hither, I would write till the pen dropped from my
hand.

More than twenty grand halls of the British Museum are devoted to
antiquities, and include the Elgin Marbles--the spoils of the
Parthenon--the Fellows Marbles, brought from the ancient city of
Xanthus, and Sir William Hamilton's collection of Italian antiquities.
It was painful to see the friezes of the Parthenon, broken and defaced
as they are, in such a place. Rather let them moulder to dust on the
ruin from which they were torn, shining through the blue veil of the
Grecian atmosphere, from the summit of the Acropolis!

The National Gallery, on Trafalgar Square, is open four days in the
week, to the public. The "Raising of Lazarus," by Sebastian del Piombo,
is considered the gem of the collection, but my unschooled eyes could
not view it as such. It is also remarkable for having been transferred
from wood to canvass, without injury. This delicate operation was
accomplished by gluing the panel on which it was painted, flat on a
smooth table, and planing the wood gradually away till the coat of
hardened paint alone remained. A proper canvass was then prepared,
covered with a strong cement, and laid on the back of the picture, which
adhered firmly to it. The owner's nerves must have had a severe trial,
if he had courage to watch the operation. I was enraptured with
Murillo's pictures of St. John and the Holy Family. St. John is
represented as a boy in the woods, fondling a lamb. It is a glorious
head. The dark curls cluster around his fair brow, and his eyes seem
already glowing with the fire of future inspiration. There is an
innocence, a childish sweetness of expression in the countenance, which
makes one love to gaze upon it. Both of these paintings wore constantly
surrounded by ladies, and they certainly deserved the preference. In the
rooms devoted to English artists, there are many of the finest works of
West, Reynolds, Hogarth and Wilkie.

We spent a day in visiting the _lungs of London_, as the two grand parks
have been called. From the Strand through the Regent Circus, the centre
of the fashionable part of the city, we passed to Piccadilly, culling on
our way to see our old friends, the Iowas. They were at the Egyptian
Hall, in connexion with Catlin's Indian collection. The old braves knew
us at once, particularly Blister Feet, who used often to walk a linweon
deck with me, at sea. Further along Piccadilly is Wellington's mansion
of Apsley House, and nearly opposite it, in the corner of Hyde Park,
stands the colossal statue of Achilles, cast from cannon taken at
Salamanca and Vittoria. The Park resembles an open common, with here and
there a grove of trees, intersected by carriage roads, it is like
getting into the country again to be out on its broad, green field, with
the city seen dimly around through the smoky atmosphere. We walked for a
mile or two along the shady avenues and over the lawns, having a view of
the princely terraces and gardens on one hand, and the gentle outline of
Primrose Hill on the other. Regent's Park itself covers a space of
nearly four hundred acres!

But if London is unsurpassed in splendor, it has also its corresponding
share of crime. Notwithstanding the large and efficient body of police,
who do much towards the control of vice, one sees enough of degradation
and brutality in a short time, to make his heart sick. Even the public
thorough fares are thronged at night with characters of the lowest
description, and it is not expedient to go through many of the narrow
bye-haunts of the old city in the day-time. The police, who are ever on
the watch, immediately seize and carry off any offender, but from the
statements of persons who have had an opportunity of observing, as well
as from my own slight experience, I am convinced that there is an untold
amount of misery and crime. London is one of the wonders of the world,
but there is reason to believe it is one of the curses of the world
also; though, in fact, nothing but an active and unceasing philanthropy
can prevent any city from becoming so.

_Aug. 22._--I have now been six days in London, and by making good use
of my feet and eyes, have managed to become familiar with almost every
object of interest within its precincts. Having a plan mapped out for
the day, I started from my humble lodgings at the Aldgate Coffee House,
where I slept off fatigue for a shilling a night, and walked up
Cheapside or down Whitechapel, as the case might be, hunting out my way
to churches, halls and theatres. In this way, at a trifling expense, I
have perhaps seen as much as many who spend here double the time and
ten times the money. Our whole tour from Liverpool hither, by way of
Ireland and Scotland, cost us but twenty-five dollars each! although,
except in one or two cases, we denied ourselves no necessary comfort.
This shows that the glorious privilege of looking on the scenes of the
old world need not be confined to people of wealth and leisure. It may
be enjoyed by all who can occasionally forego a little bodily comfort
for the sake of mental and spiritual gain. We leave this afternoon for
Dover. Tomorrow I shall dine in Belgium!




CHAPTER VII.

FLIGHT THROUGH BELGIUM.


_Bruges._--On the Continent at last! How strangely look the century-old
towers, antique monuments, and quaint, narrow streets of the Flemish
cities! It is an agreeable and yet a painful sense of novelty to stand
for the first time in the midst of a people whose language and manners
are different from one's own. The old buildings around, linked with many
a stirring association of past history, gratify the glowing
anticipations with which one has looked forward to seeing them, and the
fancy is busy at work reconciling the _real_ scene with the _ideal_; but
the want of a communication with the living world about, walls one up
with a sense of loneliness he could not before have conceived. I envy
the children in the streets of Bruges their childish language.

Yesterday afternoon we came from London through the green wooded lawns
and vales of England, to Dover, which we reached at sunset, passing by a
long tunnel through the lofty Shakspeare Cliff. We had barely time
before it grew dark to ascend the cliff. The glorious coast view looked
still wilder in the gathering twilight, which soon hid from our sight
the dim hills of France. On the cliff opposite frowned the massive
battlements of the Castle, guarding the town, which lay in a nook of the
rocks below. As the Ostend boat was to leave at four in the morning, my
cousin aroused us at three, and we felt our way down stairs in the dark.
But the landlord was reluctant to part with us; we stamped and shouted
and rang bells, till the whole house was in an uproar, for the door was
double-locked, and the steamboat bell began to sound. At last he could
stand it no longer; we gave a quick utterance to our overflowing wrath,
and rushed down to the boat but a second or two before it left.

The water of the Channel was smooth as glass and as the sun rose, the
far chalky cliffs gleamed along the horizon, a belt of fire. I waved a
good-bye to Old England and then turned to see the spires of Dunkirk,
which were visible in the distance before us. On the low Belgian coast
we could see trees and steeples, resembling a mirage over the level
surface of the sea; at length, about ten o'clock, the square tower of
Ostend came in sight. The boat passed into a long muddy basin, in which
many unwieldy, red-sailed Dutch craft were lying, and stopped beside a
high pier. Here amid the confusion of three languages, an officer came
on board and took charge of our passports and luggage. As we could not
get the former for two or three hours, we did not hurry the passing of
the latter, and went on shore quite unincumbered, for a stroll about the
city, disregarding the cries of the hackney-coachmen on the pier,
"_Hotel d'Angleterre_," "_Hotel des Bains!_" and another who called out
in English, "I recommend you to the Royal Hotel, sir!"

There is little to be seen in Ostend. We wandered through long rows of
plain yellow houses, trying to read the French and low Dutch signs, and
at last came out on the wall near the sea. A soldier motioned us back as
we attempted to ascend it, and muttering some unintelligible words,
pointed to a narrow street near. Following this out of curiosity, we
crossed the moat and found ourselves on the great bathing beach. To get
out of the hands of the servants who immediately surrounded us, we
jumped into one of the little wagons and were driven out into the surf.

To be certain of fulfilling the railroad regulations, we took our seats
quarter of an hour before the time. The dark walls of Ostend soon
vanished and we were whirled rapidly over a country perfectly level, but
highly fertile and well cultivated. Occasionally there was a ditch or
row of trees, but otherwise there was no division between the fields,
and the plain stretched unbroken away into the distance. The twenty
miles to Bruges we made in forty minutes. The streets of this antique
city are narrow and crooked, and the pointed, ornamented gables of the
houses, produce a novel impression on one who has been accustomed to the
green American forests. Then there was the endless sound of wooden shoes
clattering over the rough pavements, and people talking in that most
unmusical of all languages, low Dutch. Walking at random through the
streets, we came by chance upon the Cathedral of Notre Dame. I shall
long remember my first impression of the scene within. The lofty gothic
ceiling arched far above my head and through the stained windows the
light came but dimly--it was all still, solemn and religious. A few
worshippers were kneeling in silence before some of the shrines and the
echo of my tread seemed like a profaning sound. On every side were
pictures, saints gilded shrines. A few steps removed one from the bustle
and din of the crowd to the stillness and solemnity of the holy retreat.

We learned from the guide, whom we had engaged because he spoke a few
words of English, that there was still a _treckshuyt_ line on the
canals, and that one boat leaves to-night at ten o'clock for Ghent.
Wishing to try this old Dutch method of travelling, he took us about
half a mile along the Ghent road to the canal, where a moderate sized
boat was lying. Our baggage deposited in the plainly furnished cabin, I
ran back to Bruges, although it was beginning to grow dark, to get a
sight of the belfry; for Longfellow's lines had been running through my
head all day:

"In the market place of Bruges, stands the belfry old and brown,
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town."

And having found the square, brown tower in one corner of the open
market square, we waited to hear the chimes, which are said to be the
finest in Europe. They rang out at last with a clear silvery tone, most
beautifully musical indeed. We then returned to the boat in the
twilight. We were to leave in about an hour, according to the
arrangement, but as yet there was no sound to be heard, and we were the
only tenants. However, trusting to Dutch regularity, we went to sleep in
the full confidence of awakening in Ghent.

I awoke once in the night and saw the dark branches of trees passing
before the window, but there was no perceptible sound nor motion; the
boat glided along like a dream, and we were awakened next morning by its
striking against the pier at Ghent. After paying three francs for the
whole night journey, the captain gave us a guide to the railroad
station, and as we had nearly an hour before the train left, I went to
see the Cathedral of St. Bavon. After leaving Ghent, the road passes
through a beautiful country, cultivated like a garden. The Dutch passion
for flowers is displayed in the gardens around the cottages; even every
vacant foot of ground along the railway is planted with roses and
dahlias. At Ghent, the morning being fair, we took seats in the open
cars. About noon it commenced raining and our situation was soon
anything but comfortable. My cousin had fortunately a water-proof Indian
blanket with him, which he had purchased in the "Far West," and by
wrapping this around all three of us, we kept partly dry. I was much
amused at the plight of a party of young Englishmen, who were in the
same car; one of them held a little parasol which just covered his hat,
and sent the water in streams down on his back and shoulders.

We had a misty view of Liege, through the torrents of rain, and then
dashed away into the wild, mountain scenery of the Meuse. Steep, rocky
hills, covered with pine and crowned with ruined towers, hemmed in the
winding and swollen river, and the wet, cloudy sky seemed to rest like a
canopy on their summits. Instead of threading their mazy defiles, we
plunged directly into the mountain's heart, flew over the narrow valley
on lofty and light-sprung arches, and went again into the darkness. At
Verviers, our baggage was weighed, examined and transferred, with
ourselves, to a Prussian train. There was a great deal of disputing on
the occasion. A lady, who had a dog in a large willow basket, was not
allowed to retain it, nor would they take it as baggage. The matter was
finally compromised by their sending the basket, obliging her to carry
the dog, which was none of the smallest, in her arms! The next station
bore the sign of the black eagle, and here our passports were obliged to
be given up. Advancing through long ranges of wooded hills, we saw at
length, in the dull twilight of a rainy day, the old kingly city of Aix
la Chapelle on a plain below us. After a scene at the custom-house,
where our baggage was reclaimed with tickets given at Verviers, we drove
to the _Hotel du Rhin_, and while warming our shivering limbs and drying
our damp garments, felt tempted to exclaim with the old Italian author:
"O! holy and miraculous tavern!"

The Cathedral with its lofty Gothic tower, was built by the emperor
Otho in the tenth century. It seems at present to be undergoing repairs,
for a large scaffold shut out the dome. The long hall was dim with
incense smoke as we entered, and the organ sounded through the high
arches with an effect that startled me. The windows glowed with the
forms of kings and saints, and the dusty and mouldering shrines which
rose around were colored with the light that came through. The music
pealed out like a triumphal march, sinking at times into a mournful
strain, as if it celebrated and lamented the heroes who slept below. In
the stone pavement nearly under my feet was a large square marble slab,
with words "CAROLO MAGNO." It was like a dream, to stand there on the
tomb of the mighty warrior, with the lofty arches of the Cathedral
above, filled with the sound of the divine anthem. I mused above his
ashes till the music ceased and then left the Cathedral, that nothing
might break the romantic spell associated with that crumbling pile and
the dead it covered. I have always revered the memory of Charlemagne. He
lived in a stern age, but he was in mind and heart a man, and like
Napoleon, who placed the iron crown which had lain with him centuries in
the tomb, upon his own brow, he had an Alpine grandeur of mind, which
the world was forced to acknowledge.

At noon we took the _chars-à-banc_, or second-class carriages, for fear
of rain, and continued our journey over a plain dotted with villages and
old chateaux. Two or three miles from Cologne we saw the spires of the
different churches, conspicuous among which were the unfinished towers
of the Cathedral, with the enormous crane standing as it did when they
left off building, two hundred years ago or more. On arriving, we drove
to the Bonn railway, where finding the last train did not leave for four
hours, we left our baggage and set out for the Cathedral. Of all Gothic
buildings, the plan of this is certainly the most stupendous; even ruin
as it is, it cannot fail to excite surprise and admiration. The King of
Prussia has undertaken to complete it according to the original plan,
which was lately found in the possession of a poor man, of whom it was
purchased for 40,000 florins, but he has not yet finished repairing what
is already built. The legend concerning this plan may not be known to
every one. It is related of the inventor of it, that in despair of
finding any sufficiently great, he was walking one day by the river,
sketching with his stick upon the sand, when he finally hit upon one
which pleased him so much that he exclaimed: "This shall be the plan!"
"I will show you a better one than that!" said a voice suddenly behind
him, and a certain black gentleman who figures in all German legends
stood by him, and pulled from his pocket a roll containing the present
plan of the Cathedral. The architect, amazed at its grandeur, asked an
explanation of every part. As he knew his soul was to be the price of
it, he occupied himself while the devil was explaining, in committing
its proportions carefully to memory. Having done this, he remarked that
it did not please him and he would not take it. The devil, seeing
through the cheat, exclaimed in his rage: "You may build your Cathedral
according to this plan, but you shall never finish it!" This prediction
seems likely to be verified, for though it was commenced in 1248, and
built for 250 years, only the choir and nave and one tower to half its
original height, are finished.

We visited the chapel of the eleven thousand virgins, the walls of which
are full of curious grated cells, containing their bones, and then
threaded the narrow streets of Cologne, which are quite dirty enough to
justify Coleridge's lines:

    "The river Rhine, it is well known
    Doth wash the city of Cologne;
    But tell me nymphs, what power divine
    Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine!"




CHAPTER VIII.

THE RHINE TO HEIDELBERG.


HEIDELBERG, August 30. Here at last! and a most glorious place it is.
This is our first morning in our new rooms, and the sun streams warmly
in the eastern windows, as I write, while the old castle rises through
the blue vapor on the side of the Kaiser-stuhl. The Neckar rushes on
below; and the Odenwald, before, me, rejoices with its vineyards in the
morning light. The bells of the old chapel near us are sounding most
musically, and a confused sound of voices and the rolling of vehicles
comes up from the street. It is a place to live in!

I must go back five or six days and take up the record of our
journeyings at Bonn. We had been looking over Murray's infallible
"Handbook," and observed that he recommended the "Star" hotel in that
city, as "the most moderate in its prices of any on the Rhine;" so when
the train from Cologne arrived and we were surrounded, in the darkness
and confusion, by porters and valets, I sung out: "_Hotel de l'Etoile
d'or!_" our baggage and ourselves were transferred to a stylish omnibus,
and in five minutes we stopped under a brilliantly-lighted archway,
where Mr. Joseph Schmidt received us with the usual number of smiles and
bows bestowed upon untitled guests. We were furnished with neat rooms in
the summit of the house, and then descended to the _salle à manger_. I
found a folded note by my plate, which I opened--it contained an
engraving of the front of the hotel, a plan of the city and catalogue of
its lions, together with a list of the titled personages who have, from
time to time, honored the "Golden Star" with their custom. Among this
number were "Their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge,
Prince Albert," etc. Had it not been for fatigue, I should have spent
an uneasy night, thinking of the heavy bill which was to be presented on
the morrow. We escaped, however, for seven francs apiece, three of which
were undoubtedly for the honor of breathing an aristocratic atmosphere.

I was glad when we were really in motion on the swift Rhine, the next
morning, and nearing the chain of mountains that rose up before us. We
passed Godesberg on the right, while on our left was the group of the
seven mountains which extend back from the Drachenfels to the
Wolkenberg, or Castle of the Clouds. Here we begin to enter the
enchanted land. The Rhine sweeps around the foot of the Drachenfels,
while opposite the precipitous rock of Rolandseek, crowned with the
castle of the faithful knight, looks down upon the beautiful Island of
Nonnenwerth, the white walls of the convent still gleaming through the
trees, as they did when the warrior's weary eyes looked upon them for
the last time. I shall never forget the enthusiasm with which I saw this
scene in the bright, warm sunlight, the rough crags softened in the haze
which filled the atmosphere, and the wild mountains springing up in the
midst of vineyards, and crowned with crumbling towers, filled with the
memories of a thousand years.

After passing Andernach, we saw in the distance the highlands of the
middle Rhine, which rise above Coblentz, guarding the entrance to its
wild scenery, and the mountains of the Moselle. They parted as we
approached; from the foot shot up the spires of Coblentz, and the
battlements of Ehrenbreitstein crowning the mountain opposite, grew
larger and broader. The air was slightly hazy, and the clouds seemed
laboring among the distant mountains to raise a storm. As we came
opposite the mouth of the Moselle and under the shadow of the mighty
fortress, I gazed up with awe at its massive walls. Apart from its
magnitude and almost impregnable situation on a perpendicular rock, it
is filled with the recollections of history and hallowed by the voice of
poetry. The scene went past like a panorama, the bridge of boats opened,
the city glided behind us and we entered the highlands again.

Above Coblentz almost every mountain has a ruin and a legend. One feels
everywhere the spirit of the past, and its stirring recollections come
back upon the mind with irresistible force. I sat upon the deck the
whole afternoon, as mountains, towns and castles passed by on either
side, watching them with a feeling of the most enthusiastic enjoyment.
Every place was familiar to me in memory, and they seemed like friends I
had long communed with in spirit and now met face to face. The English
tourists, with whom the deck was covered, seemed interested too, but in
a different manner. With Murray's Handbook open in their hands, they sat
and read about the very towns and towers they were passing, scarcely
lifting their eyes to the real scenes, except now and then, to observe
that it was "_very nice_."

As we passed Boppart, I sought out the Inn of the "Star," mentioned in
"Hyperion"; there was a maiden sitting on the steps who might have been
Paul Flemming's fair boat-woman. The clouds which had here gathered
among the hills, now came over the river, and the rain cleared the deck
of its crowd of admiring tourists. As we were approaching Lurlei Berg, I
did not go below, and so enjoyed some of the finest scenery on the Rhine
alone. The mountains approach each other at this point, and the Lurlei
Rock rises up for six hundred feet from the water. This is the haunt of
the water nymph, Lurlei, whose song charmed the ear of the boatman while
his barque was dashed to pieces on the rocks below. It is also
celebrated for its remarkable echo. As we passed between the rocks, a
guard, who has a little house built on the road-side, blew a flourish on
his bugle, which was instantly answered by a blast from the rocky
battlements of Lurlei. The German students have a witty trick with this
echo: they call out, "Who is the Burgomaster of Oberwesel?" a town just
above. The echo answers with the last syllable "Esel!" which is the
German for _ass_.

The sun came out of the cloud as we passed Oberwesel, with its tall
round tower, and the light shining through the ruined arches of
Schonberg castle, made broad bars of light and shade in the still misty
air. A rainbow sprang up out of the Rhine, and lay brightly on the
mountain side, coloring vineyard and crag, in the most singular beauty,
while its second reflection faintly arched like a glory above the high
summits. In the bed of the river were the seven countesses of Schonberg,
turned into seven rocks for their cruelty and hard-heartedness towards
the knights whom their beauty had made captive. In front, at a little
distance was the castle of Pfalz, in the middle of the river, and from
the heights above Caub frowned the crumbling citadel of Gutenfels.
Imagine all this, and tell me if it is not a picture whose memory should
last a life-time!

We came at last to Bingen, the southern gate of the Highlands. Here, on
an island in the middle of the stream, is the old Mouse tower where
Bishop Hatto of Mayence was eaten up by the rats for his wicked deeds.
Passing Rudesheim and Geissenheim, celebrated for their wines, at
sunset, we watched the varied shore in the growing darkness, till like a
line of stars across the water, we saw before us the bridge of Mayence.

The next morning I parted from my friends, who were going to Heidelberg
by way of Mannheim, and set out alone for Frankfort. The cars passed
through Hochheim, whose wines are celebrated all over the world; there
is little to interest the traveler till he arrives at Frankfort, whose
spires are seen rising from groves of trees as he approaches. I left the
cars, unchallenged for my passport, greatly to my surprise, as it had
cost me a long walk and five shillings in London, to get the signature
of the Frankfort Consul. I learned afterwards it was not at all
necessary. Before leaving America, N.P. Willis had kindly given me a
letter to his brother, Richard S. Willis, who is now cultivating a
naturally fine taste for music in Frankfort, and my first care was to
find the American Consul, in order to learn his residence. I discovered
at last, from a gentleman who spoke a little French, that the Consul's
office was in the street _Bellevue_, which street I not only looked for
through the city, but crossed over the bridge to the suburb of
Sachsenhausen, and traversed its narrow, dirty alleys three several
times, but in vain. I was about giving up the search, when I stumbled
upon the office accidentally. The name of the street had been given to
me in French and very naturally it was not to be found. Willis received
me very kindly and introduced me to the amiable German family with whom
he resides.

After spending a delightful evening with my newly-found friends, I left
the next morning in the omnibus for Heidelberg. We passed through
Sachsenhausen and ascended a long hill to the watch-tower, whence there
is a beautiful view of the Main valley. Four hours' driving over the
monotonous plain, brought me to Darmstadt. The city wore a gay look,
left by the recent _fêtes_. The monument of the old Duke Ludwig had just
been erected in the centre of the great square, and the festival
attendant upon the unveiling of it, which lasted three days, had just
closed. The city was hung with garlands, and the square filled with the
pavilions of the royal family and the musicians, of whom there were a
thousand present, while everywhere were seen red and white flags--the
colors of Darmstadt. We met wagons decorated with garlands, full of
pleasant girls, in the odd dress which they have worn for three hundred
years.

After leaving Darmstadt we entered upon the Bergstrasse, or
Mountain-way, leading along the foot of the mountain chain which extends
all the way to Heidelberg on the left, while on the right stretches far
away the Rhine-plain, across which we saw the dim outline of the
Donnersberg, in France. The hills are crowned with castles and their
sides loaded with vines; along the road the rich green foliage of the
walnut trees arched and nearly met above us. The sun shone warm and
bright, and every body appeared busy and contented and happy. All we met
had smiling countenances. In some places we saw whole families sitting
under the trees shelling the nuts they had beaten down, while others
were returning from the vineyards, laden with baskets of purple and
white grapes. The scene seemed to realize all I had read of the
happiness of the German peasantry, and the pastoral beauty of the German
plains.

With the passengers in the omnibus I could hold little conversation.
One, who knew about as much French as I did, asked me where I came from,
and I shall not soon forget his expression of incredulity, as I
mentioned America. "Why," said he, "you are white--the Americans are all
black!"

We passed the ruined castles of Auerback and Starkenburg, and Burg
Windeck, on the summit of a mountain near Weinheim, formerly one of the
royal residences of Charlemagne, and finally came to the Heiligenberg or
Holy Mountain, guarding the entrance into the Odenwald by the valley of
the Neckar. As we wound around its base to the river, the Kaiserstuhl
rose before us, with the mighty castle hanging upon its side and
Heidelberg at its feet. It was a most strikingly beautiful scene, and
for a moment I felt inclined to assent to the remark of my bad-French
acquaintance--"America is not beautiful--Heidelberg is beautiful!" The
sun had just set as we turned the corner of the Holy Mountain and drove
up the bank of the Neckar; all the chimes of Heidelberg began suddenly
to ring and a cannon by the riverside was fired off every minute--the
sound echoing five times distinctly from mountain back to mountain, and
finally crashing far off, along the distant hills of the Odenwald. It
was the birthday of the Grand Duke of Baden, and these rejoicings were
for the closing _fête_.




CHAPTER IX.

SCENES IN AND AROUND HEIDELBERG.


_Sept. 30._--There is so much to be seen around this beautiful place,
that I scarcely know where to begin a description of it. I have been
wandering among the wild paths that lead up and down the mountain side,
or away into the forests and lonely meadows in the lap of the Odenwald.
My mind is filled with images of the romantic German scenery, whose real
beauty is beginning to displace the imaginary picture which I had
painted with the enthusiastic words of Howitt. I seem to stand now upon
the Kaiser-stuhl, which rises above Heidelberg, with that magnificent
landscape around me, from the Black Forest and Strasburg to Mainz, and
from the Vosges in France to the hills of Spessart in Bavaria. What a
glorious panorama! and not less rich in associations than in its natural
beauty. Below me had moved the barbarian hordes of old, the triumphant
followers of Arminius, and the Cohorts of Rome; and later, full many a
warlike host bearing the banners of the red cross to the Holy
Land,--many a knight returning with his vassals from the field, to lay
at the feet of his lady-love the scarf he had worn in a hundred battles
and claim the reward of his constancy and devotion. But brighter spirits
had also toiled below. That plain had witnessed the presence of Luther,
and a host who strove with him to free the world from the chains of a
corrupt and oppressive religion. There had also trodden the master
spirits of German song--the giant twain, with their scarcely less
harmonious brethren: they, too, had gathered inspiration from those
scenes--more fervent worship of nature and a deeper love for their
beautiful fatherland! Oh! what waves of crime and bloodshed have swept
like the waves of a deluge down the valley of the Rhine! War has laid
his mailed hand on those desolate towers and ruthlessly torn down what
time has spared, yet he could not mar the beauty of the shore, nor could
Time himself hurl down the mountains that guard it. And what if I feel a
new inspiration on beholding the scene? Now that those ages have swept
by, like the red waves of a tide of blood, we see not the darkened
earth, but the golden sands which the flood has left behind. Besides, I
have come from a new world, where the spirit of man is untrammeled by
the mouldering shackles of the past, but in its youthful and joyous
freedom, goes on to make itself a noble memory for the ages that are to
come!

Then there is the Wolfsbrunnen, which one reaches by a beautiful walk up
the bank of the Neckar, to a quiet dell in the side of the mountain.
Through this the roads lead up by rustic mills, always in motion, and
orchards laden with ripening fruit, to the commencement of the forest,
where a quaint stone fountain stands, commemorating the abode of a
sorceress of the olden time, who was torn in pieces by a wolf. There is
a handsome rustic inn here, where every Sunday afternoon a band plays in
the portico, while hundreds of people are scattered around in the cool
shadow of the trees, or feeding the splendid trout in the basin formed
by the little stream. They generally return to the city by another walk
leading along the mountain side, to the eastern terrace of the castle,
where they have fine views of the great Rhine plain, terminated by the
Alsatian hills, stretching along the western horizon like the long
crested swells on the ocean. We can even see these from the windows of
our room on the bank of the Neckar; and I often look with interest on
one sharp peak, for on its side stands the Castle of Trifels, where
Coeur de Lion was imprisoned by the Duke of Austria, and where Blondel,
his faithful minstrel, sang the ballad which discovered the retreat of
the noble captive.

The people of Heidelberg are rich in places of pleasure and amusement.
From the Carl Platz, an open square at the upper end of the city, two
paths lead directly up to the castle. By the first walk we ascend a
flight of steps to the western gate, passing through which, we enter a
delightful garden, between the outer walls of the Castle, and the huge
moat which surrounds it. Great linden, oak and beech trees shadow the
walk, and in secluded nooks, little mountain streams spring from the
side of the wall into stone basins. There is a tower over the moat on
the south side, next the mountain, where the portcullis still hangs with
its sharp teeth as it was last drawn up; on each side stand two grim
knights guarding the entrance. In one of the wooded walks is an old tree
brought from America in the year 1618. It is of the kind called _arbor
vitæ_, and uncommonly tall and slender for one of this species; yet it
does not seem to thrive well in a foreign soil. I noticed that persons
had cut many slips off the lower branches, and I would have been tempted
to do the same myself if there had been any I could reach. In the curve
of the mountain is a handsome pavilion, surrounded with beds of flowers
and fountains; here all classes meet together in the afternoon to sit
with their refreshments in the shade, while frequently a fine band of
music gives them their invariable recreation. All this, with the scenery
around them, leaves nothing unfinished to their present enjoyment. The
Germans enjoy life under all circumstances, and in this way they make
themselves much happier than we, who have far greater means of being so.

At the end of the terrace built for the princess Elizabeth, of England,
is one of the round towers, which was split in twain by the French. Half
has fallen entirely away, and the other semicircular shell which joins
the terrace and part of the Castle buildings, clings firmly together,
although part of its foundation is gone, so that its outer ends actually
hang in the air. Some idea of the strength of the castle may be obtained
when I state that the walls of this tower are twenty-two feet thick, and
that a staircase has been made through them to the top, where one can
sit under the lindens growing upon it, or look down from the end on the
city below with the pleasant consciousness that the great mass upon
which he stands is only prevented from crashing down with him by the
solidity of its masonry. On one side, joining the garden, the statue of
the Archduke Louis, in his breastplate and flowing beard, looks out from
among the ivy.

There is little to be seen about the Castle except the walls themselves.
The guide conducted us through passages, in which were heaped many of
the enormous cannon balls which it had received in sieges, to some
chambers in the foundation. This was the oldest part of the Castle,
built in the thirteenth century. We also visited the chapel, which is in
a tolerable state of preservation. A kind of narrow bridge crosses it,
over which we walked, looking down on the empty pulpit and deserted
shrines. We then went into the cellar to see the celebrated Tun. In a
large vault are kept several enormous hogsheads, one of which is three
hundred years old, but they are nothing in comparison with the tun,
which itself fills a whole vault. It is as high as a common two story
house; on the top is a platform upon which the people used to dance
after it was filled, to which one ascends by two flights of steps. I
forgot exactly how many casks it holds, but I believe eight hundred. It
has been empty for fifty years.

We are very pleasantly situated here. My friends, who arrived a day
before me, hired three rooms (with the assistance of a courier) in a
large house on the banks of the Neckar. We pay for them, with
attendance, thirty florins--about twelve dollars--a month, and Frau Dr.
Grosch, our polite and talkative landlady, gives us a student's
breakfast--coffee and biscuit--for about seven cents apiece. We are
often much amused to hear her endeavors to make us understand. As if to
convey her meaning plainer, she raises both thumbs and forefingers to
her mouth and pulls out the words like a long string; her tongue goes so
fast that it keeps my mind always on a painful stretch to comprehend an
idea here and there. Dr. S----, from whom we take lessons in German, has
kindly consented to our dining with his family for the sake of practice
in speaking. We have taken several long walks with them along the banks
of the Neckar, but I should be puzzled to repeat any of the
conversations that took place. The language, however, is fast growing
more familiar, since _women_ are the principal teachers.

Opposite my window rises the Heiligenberg, on the other side of the
Neckar. The lower part of it is rich with vineyards, and many cottages
stand embosomed in shrubbery among them. Sometimes we see groups of
maidens standing under the grape arbors, and every morning the peasant
women go toiling up the steep paths with baskets on their heads, to
labor among the vines. On the Neckar below us, the fishermen glide about
in their boats, sink their square nets fastened to a long pole, and haul
them up with the glittering fish, of which the stream is full. I often
lean out of the window late at night, when the mountains above are
wrapped in dusky obscurity, and listen to the low, musical ripple of the
river. It tells to my excited fancy a knightly legend of the old German
time. Then comes the bell, rung for closing the inns, breaking the spell
with its deep clang, which vibrates far away on the night air, till it
has roused all the echoes of the Odenwald. I then shut the window, turn
into the narrow box which the Germans call a bed, and in a few minutes
am wandering in America. Half way up the Heiligenberg runs a beautiful
walk, dividing the vineyards from the forest above. This is called the
Philosopher's Way, because it was the favorite ramble of the old
Professors of the University. It can be reached by a toilsome, winding
path among the vines, called the Snake-way, and when one has ascended to
it he is well rewarded by the lovely view. In the evening, when the sun
has got behind the mountain, it is delightful to sit on the stone steps
and watch the golden light creeping up the side of the Kaiser-stuhl,
till at last twilight begins to darken in the valley and a mantle of
mist gathers above the Neckar.

We ascended the mountain a few days ago. There is a path which leads up
through the forest, but we took the shortest way, directly up the side,
though it was at an angle of nearly fifty degrees. It was hard enough
work, scrambling through the thick broom and heather, and over stumps
and stones. In one of the stone-heaps I dislodged a large orange-colored
salamander, seven or eight inches long. They are sometimes found on
these mountains, as well as a very large kind of lizard, called the
_eidechse_, which the Germans say is perfectly harmless, and if one
whistles or plays a pipe, will come and play around him. The view from
the top reminded me of that from Catskill Mountain House, but is on a
smaller scale. The mountains stretch off sideways, confining the view to
but half the horizon, and in the middle of the picture the Hudson is
well represented by the lengthened windings of the "abounding Rhine."
Nestled at the base below us, was the little village of Handschuhheim,
one of the oldest in this part of Germany. The castle of its former
lords has nearly all fallen down, but the massive solidity of the walls
which yet stand, proves its antiquity. A few years ago, a part of the
outer walls which was remarked to have a hollow sound, was taken down,
when there fell from a deep niche built therein, a skeleton, clad in a
suit of the old German armor. We followed a road through the woods to
the peak on which stand the ruins of St. Michael's chapel, which was
built in the tenth century and inhabited for a long time by a sect of
white monks. There is now but a single tower remaining, and all around
is grown over with tall bushes and weeds. It had a wild and romantic
look, and I sat on a rock and sketched at it, till it grew dark, when we
got down the mountain the best way we could.

We lately visited the great University Library. You walk through one
hall after another, filled with books of all kinds, from the monkish
manuscript of the middle ages, to the most elegant print of the present
day. There is something to me more impressive in a library like this
than a solemn Cathedral. I think involuntarily of the hundreds of mighty
spirits who speak from these three hundred thousand volumes--of the
toils and privations with which genius has ever struggled, and of his
glorious reward. As in a church, one feels as it were, the presence of
God; not because the place has been hallowed by his worship, but because
all around stand the inspirations of his spirit, breathed through the
mind of genius, to men. And if the mortal remains of saints and heroes
do not repose within its walls, the great and good of the whole earth
are there, speaking their counsels to the searcher for truth, with
voices whose last reverberation will die away only when the globe falls
into ruin.

A few nights ago there was a wedding of peasants across the river. In
order to celebrate it particularly, the guests went to the house where
it was given, by torchlight. The night was quite dark, and the bright
red torches glowed on the surface of the Neckar, as the two couriers
galloped along the banks to the bridegroom's house. Here, after much
shouting and confusion, the procession was arranged, the two riders
started back again with their torches, and the wagons containing the
guests followed after with their flickering lights glancing on the
water, till they disappeared around the foot of the mountain. The
choosing of Conscripts also took place lately. The law requires one
person out of every hundred to become a soldier, and this, in the city
of Heidelberg, amounts to nearly 150. It was a sad spectacle. The young
men, or rather boys, who were chosen, went about the city with cockades
fastened on their hats, shouting and singing, many of them quite
intoxicated. I could not help pitying them because of the dismal,
mechanical life they are doomed to follow. Many were rough, ignorant
peasants, to whom nearly any kind of life would be agreeable; but there
were some whose countenances spoke otherwise, and I thought
involuntarily, that their drunken gaiety was only affected to conceal
their real feelings with regard to the lot which had fallen upon them.

We are gradually becoming accustomed to the German style of living,
which is very different from our own. Their cookery is new to us, but
is, nevertheless, good. We have every day a different kind of soup, so I
have supposed they keep a regular list of three hundred and sixty-five,
one for every day in the year! Then we have potatoes "done up" in oil
and vinegar, veal flavored with orange peel, barley pudding, and all
sorts of pancakes, boiled artichokes, and always rye bread, in loaves a
yard long! Nevertheless, we thrive on such diet, and I have rarely
enjoyed more sound and refreshing sleep than in their narrow and
coffin-like beds, uncomfortable as they seem. Many of the German customs
are amusing. We never see oxen working here, but always cows, sometimes
a single one in a cart, and sometimes two fastened together by a yoke
across their horns. The women labor constantly in the fields; from our
window we can hear the nut-brown maidens singing their cheerful songs
among the vineyards on the mountain side. Their costume, too, is odd
enough. Below the light-fitting vest they wear such a number of short
skirts, one above another, that it reminds one of an animated hogshead,
with a head and shoulders starting out from the top. I have heard it
gravely asserted that the wealth of a German damsel may be known by
counting the number of her "kirtles." An acquaintance of mine remarked,
that it would be an excellent costume for falling down a precipice!

We have just returned from a second visit to Frankfort, where the great
annual fair filled the streets with noise and bustle. On our way back,
we stopped at the village of Zwingenberg, which lies at the foot of the
Melibochus, for the purpose of visiting some of the scenery of the
Odenwald. Passing the night at the inn there, we slept with one bed
under and two above, and started early in the morning to climb up the
side of the Melibochus. After a long walk through the forests, which
were beginning to change their summer foliage for a brighter garment, we
reached the summit and ascended the stone tower which stands upon it.
This view gives one a better idea of the Odenwald, than that from the
Kaiser-stuhl at Heidelberg. In the soft autumn atmosphere it looked even
more beautiful. After an hour in that heaven of uplifted thought, into
which we step from the mountain-top, our minds went with the path
downward to earth, and we descended the eastern side into the wild
region which contains the _Felsenmeer_, or Sea of Rocks.

We met on the way a student from Fulda--a fine specimen of that
free-spirited class, and a man whose smothered aspiration was betrayed
in the flashing of his eye, as he spoke of the present painful and
oppressed condition of Germany. We talked so busily together that
without noticing the path, which had been bringing us on, up hill and
down, through forest and over rock, we came at last to a halt in a
valley among the mountains. Making inquiries there, we found we had gone
wrong, and must ascend by a different path the mountain we had just come
down. Near the summit of this, in a wild pine wood, was the
Felsenmeer--a great collection of rocks heaped together like pebbles on
the sea shore, and worn and rounded as if by the action of water: so
much do they resemble waves, that one standing at the bottom and looking
up, cannot resist the idea, that they will flow down upon him. It must
have been a mighty tide whose receding waves left these masses piled up
together! The same formation continues at intervals, to the foot, of the
mountains. It reminded me of a _glacier_ of rocks instead of ice. A
little higher up, lies a massive block of granite called the "Giant's
Column." It is thirty-two feet long and three to four feet in diameter,
and still bears the mark of the chisel. When or by whom it was made,
remains a mystery. Some have supposed it was intended to be erected for
the worship of the Sun, by the wild Teutonic tribes who inhabited this
forest; it is more probably the work of the Romans. A project was once
started, to erect it as a monument on the battle-field of Leipsic, but
it was found too difficult to carry into execution.

After dining at the little village of Reichelsdorf in the valley below,
where the merry landlord charged my friend two kreutzers less than
myself because he was not so tall, we visited the Castle of Schönberg,
and joined the Bergstrasse again. We walked the rest of the way here;
long before we arrived, the moon shone down on us over the mountains,
and when we turned around the foot of the Heiligenberg, the mist
descending in the valley of the Neckar, rested like a light cloud on the
church spires.




CHAPTER X.

A WALK THROUGH THE ODENWALD.


B---- and I are now comfortably settled in Frankfort, having, with Mr.
Willis's kind assistance, obtained lodgings with the amiable family,
with whom he has resided for more than two years. My cousin remains in
Heidelberg to attend the winter course of lectures at the University.

Having forwarded our baggage by the omnibus, we came hither on foot,
through the heart of the Odenwald, a region full of interest, yet little
visited by travellers. Dr. S---- and his family walked with us three or
four miles of the way, and on a hill above Ziegelhausen, with a splendid
view behind us, through the mountain-door, out of which the Neckar
enters on the Rhine-plain, we parted. This was a first, and I must
confess, a somewhat embarrassing experience in German leave-taking.
After bidding adieu three or four times, we started to go up the
mountain and they down it, but at every second step we had to turn
around to acknowledge the waving of hands and handkerchiefs, which
continued so long that I was glad when we were out of sight of each
other. We descended on the other side into a wild and romantic valley,
whose meadows were of the brightest green; a little brook which wound
through them, put now and then its "silvery shoulder" to the wheel of a
rustic mill. By the road-side two or three wild-looking gipsies sat
around a fire, with some goats feeding near them.

Passing through this valley and the little village of Schönau, we
commenced ascending one of the loftiest ranges of the Odenwald. The side
of the mountain was covered with a thick pine forest. There was no wind
to wake its solemn anthem; all was calm and majestic, and even awful.
The trees rose all around like the pillars of a vast Cathedral, whose
long arched aisles vanished far below in the deepening gloom.

    "Nature with folded hands seemed there,
    Kneeling at her evening prayer,"

for twilight had already begun to gather. We went on and up and ever
higher, like the youth in "Excelsior;" the beech and dwarf oak took the
place of the pine, and at last we arrived at a cleared summit whose long
brown grass waved desolately in the dim light of evening. A faint glow
still lingered over the forest-hills, but down in the valley the dusky
shades hid every vestige of life, though its sounds came up softened
through the long space. When we reached the top a bright planet stood
like a diamond over the brow of the eastern hill, and the sound of a
twilight bell came up clearly and sonorously on the cool damp air. The
white veil of mist slowly descended down the mountain side, but the
peaks rose above it like the wrecks of a world, floating in space. We
made our way in the dusk down the long path, to the rude little dorf of
Elsbach. I asked at the first inn for lodging, where we were ushered
into a great room, in which a number of girls who had been at work in
the fields, were assembled. They were all dressed in men's jackets, and
short gowns, and some had their hair streaming down their back. The
landlord's daughter, however, was a beautiful girl, whose modest,
delicate features contrasted greatly with the coarse faces of the
others. I thought of Uhland's beautiful little poem of "The Landlady's
Daughter," as I looked on her. In the room hung two or three pair of
antlers, and they told us deer were still plenty in the forests.

When we left the village the next morning, we again commenced ascending.
Over the whole valley and halfway up the mountain, lay a thick white
frost, almost like snow, which contrasted with the green trees and
bushes scattered over the meadows, produced the most singular effect. We
plucked blackberries ready iced from the bushes by the road-side, and
went on in the cold, for the sun shone only on the top of the opposite
mountain, into another valley, down which rushed the rapid Ulver. At a
little village which bears the beautiful name _Anteschönmattenwag_, we
took a foot-path directly over a steep mountain to the village of
Finkenbach. Near the top I found two wild-looking children, cutting
grass with knives, both of whom I prevailed upon for a few kreutzers to
stand and let me sketch them. From the summit the view on the other side
was very striking. The hills were nearly every one covered with wood,
and not a dwelling in sight. It reminded me of our forest scenery at
home. The principal difference is, that our trees are two or three times
the size of theirs.

At length, after scaling another mountain, we reached a wide, elevated
plain, in the middle of which stood the old dorf of Beerfelden. It was
then crowded with people, on account of a great cattle-fair being held
there. All the farmers of the neighborhood were assembled, clad in the
ancient country costume--broad cocked hats and blue frocks. An orchard
near the town was filled with cattle and horses, and near by, in the
shade, a number of pedlars had arranged their wares. The cheerful
looking country people touched their hats to us as we passed. This
custom of greeting travellers, universal in Germany, is very expressive
of their social, friendly manners. Among the mountains, we frequently
met groups of children, who sang together their simple ballads as we
passed by.

From Beerfelden we passed down the valley of the Mimling to Erbach, the
principal city in the Odenwald, and there stopped a short time to view
the Rittersaal in the old family castle of the Counts of Erbach. An
officer, who stood at the gates, conducted us to the door, where we were
received by a noble-looking, gray-headed steward. He took us into the
Rittersaal at once, which was like stepping back three hundred years.
The stained windows of the lofty Gothic hall, let in a subdued light
which fell on the forms of kings and knights, clad in the armor they
wore during life. On the left as we entered, were mail-covered figures
of John and Cosmo do Medici; further on stood the Emperor Maximilian,
and by his side the celebrated dwarf who was served up in a pie at one
of the imperial feasts. His armor was most delicate and beautiful, but
small as it was, General Thumb would have had room in it. Gustavus
Adolphus and Wallenstein looked down from the neighboring pedestals,
while at the other end stood Goetz von Berlichingen and Albert of
Brunswick. Guarding the door were Hans, the robber-knight of Nuremberg,
and another from the Thüringian forest. The steward told me that the
iron hand of Goetz was in possession of the family, but not shown to
strangers; he pointed out, however, the buckles on the armor, by which
it was fastened. Adjoining the hall is an antique chapel, filled with
rude old tombs, and containing the sarcophagus of Count Eginhard of
Denmark, who lived about the tenth century. There were also monkish
garments five hundred years old hanging up in it.

The collection of antiquities is large and interesting; but it is said
that the old Count obtained some of them in rather a questionable
manner. Among other incidents, they say that when in Rome he visited the
Pope, taking with him an old servant who accompanied him in all his
travels, and was the accomplice in most of his antiquarian thefts. In
one of the outer halls, among the curiosities, was an antique shield of
great value. The servant was left in this hall while the Count had his
audience, and in a short time this shield was missed. The servant who
wore a long cloak, was missed also; orders were given to close the gates
and search every body, but it was too late--the thief was gone.

Leaving Erbach we found out the direction of Snellert, the Castle of the
Wild Huntsman, and took a road that led us for two or three hours along
the top of a mountain ridge. Through the openings in the pine and larch
forests, we had glimpses of the hills of Spessart, beyond the Main. When
we finally left the by-road we had chosen it was quite dark, and we
missed the way altogether among the lanes and meadows. We came at last
to a full stop at the house of a farmer, who guided us by a foot path
over the fields to a small village. On entering the only inn, kept by
the Burgomaster, the people finding we were Americans, regarded us with
a curiosity quite uncomfortable. They crowded around the door, watching
every motion, and gazed in through the windows. The wild huntsman
himself could scarcely have made a greater sensation. The news of our
arrival seemed to have spread very fast, for the next morning when we
stopped at a prune orchard some distance from the village to buy some
fruit, the farmer cried out from a tree, "they are the Americans; give
them as many as they want for nothing!"

With the Burgomaster's little son for a guide, we went back a mile or
two of our route to Snellert, which we had passed the night before, and
after losing ourselves two or three times in the woods, arrived at last
at the top of the mountain, where the ruins of the castle stand. The
walls are nearly level with the ground. The interest of a visit rests
entirely on the romantic legend, and the wild view over the hills
around, particularly that in front, where on the opposite mountain are
the ruins of Rodenstein, to which the wild Huntsman was wont to ride at
midnight--where he now rides no more. The echoes of Rodenstein are no
longer awakened by the sound of his bugle, and the hoofs of his demon
steed clanging on the battlements. But the hills around are wild enough,
and the roar of the pine forests deep enough to have inspired the simple
peasants with the romantic tradition.

Stopping for dinner at the town of Rheinheim, we met an old man, who, on
learning we were Americans, walked with us as far as the next village.
He had a daughter in America and was highly gratified to meet any one
from the country of her adoption. He made me promise to visit her, if I
ever should go to St. Louis, and say that I had walked with her father
from Rheinheim to Zwangenburg. To satisfy his fears that I might forget
it, I took down his name and that of his daughter. He shook me warmly by
the hand at parting, and was evidently made happier for that day.

We reached Darmstadt just in time to take a seat in the omnibus for
Frankfort. Among the passengers were a Bavarian family, on their way to
Bremen, to ship from thence to Texas. I endeavored to discourage the man
from choosing such a country as his home, by telling him of its heats
and pestilences, but he was too full of hope to be shaken in his
purpose. I would have added that it was a slave-land, but I thought on
our own country's curse, and was silent. The wife was not so sanguine;
she seemed to mourn in secret at leaving her beautiful fatherland. It
was saddening to think how lonely they would feel in that far home, and
how they would long, with true German devotion, to look again on the
green vintage-hills of their forsaken country. As night drew on, the
little girl crept over to her father for his accustomed evening kiss,
and then sank back to sleep in a corner of the wagon. The boy, in the
artless confidence of childhood, laid his head on my breast, weary with
the day's travel, and soon slept also. Thus we drove on in the dark,
till at length the lights of Frankfort glimmered on the breast of the
rapid Main, as we passed over the bridge, and when we stopped near the
Cathedral, I delivered up my little charge and sent my sympathy with the
wanderers on their lonely way.




CHAPTER XI.

SCENES IN FRANKFORT--AN AMERICAN COMPOSER--THE POET FREILIGRATH.


_Dec. 4._--This is a genuine old German city. Founded by Charlemagne,
afterwards a rallying point of the Crusaders, and for a long time the
capital of the German empire, it has no lack of interesting historical
recollections, and notwithstanding it is fast becoming modernized, one
is every where reminded of the Past. The Cathedral, old as the days of
Peter the Hermit, the grotesque street of the Jews, the many quaint,
antiquated dwellings and the mouldering watch-towers on the hills
around, give it a more interesting character than any German city I have
yet seen. The house we dwell in, on the Markt Platz, is more than two
hundred years old; directly opposite is a great castellated building,
gloomy with the weight of six centuries, and a few steps to the left
brings me to the square of the Roemerberg, where the Emperors were
crowned, in a corner of which is a curiously ornamented house, formerly
the residence of Luther. There are legends innumerable connected with
all these buildings, and even yet discoveries are frequently made in old
houses, of secret chambers and staircases. When you add to all this, the
German love of ghost stories, and, indeed, their general belief in
spirits, the lover of romance could not desire a more agreeable
residence.

I often look out on the singular scene below my window. On both sides of
the street, leaving barely room to enter the houses, sit the market
women, with their baskets of vegetables and fruit. The middle of the
street is filled with women buying, and every cart or carriage that
comes along, has to force its way through the crowd, sometimes rolling
against and overturning the baskets on the side, when for a few minutes
there is a Babel of unintelligible sounds. The country women in their
jackets and short gowns go backwards and forwards with great loads on
their heads, sometimes nearly as high as themselves. It is a most
singular scene, and so varied that one never tires of looking upon it.
These women sit here from sunrise till sunset, day after day, for years.
They have little furnaces for cooking and for warmth in winter, and when
it rains they sit in large wooden boxes. One or two policemen are
generally on the ground in the morning to prevent disputing about their
places, which often gives rise to interesting scenes. Perhaps this kind
of life in the open air is conducive to longevity; for certainly there
is no country on earth that has as many old women. Many of them look
like walking machines made of leather; and to judge from what I see in
the streets here, I should think they work till they die.

On the 21st of October a most interesting fete took place. The
magnificent monument of Goethe, modelled by the sculptor Schwanthaler,
at Munich, and cast in bronze, was unveiled. It arrived a few days
before, and was received with much ceremony and erected in the destined
spot, an open square in the western part of the city, planted with
acacia trees. I went there at ten o'clock, and found the square already
full of people. Seats had been erected around the monument for ladies,
the singers and musicians. A company of soldiers was stationed to keep
an entrance for the procession, which at length arrived with music and
banners, and entered the enclosure. A song for the occasion was sung by
the choir; it swelled up gradually, and with such perfect harmony and
unity, that it seemed like some glorious instrument touched by a single
hand. Then a poetical address was delivered; after which four young men
took their stand at the corners of the monument; the drums and trumpets
gave a flourish, and the mantle fell. The noble figure seemed to rise
out of the earth, and thus amid shoutings and the triumphal peal of the
band, the form of Goethe greeted the city of his birth. He is
represented as leaning on the trunk of a tree, holding in his right hand
a roll of parchment, and in his left a wreath. The pedestal, which is
also of bronze, contains bas reliefs, representing scenes from Faust,
Wilhelm Meister and Egmont. In the evening Goethe's house, in a street
near, was illuminated by arches of lamps between the windows, and hung
with wreaths of flowers. Four pillars of colored lamps lighted the
statue. At nine o'clock the choir of singers came again in a procession,
with colored lanterns, on poles, and after singing two or three songs,
the statue was exhibited in the red glare of the Bengal light. The trees
and houses around the square were covered with the glow, which streamed
in broad sheets up against the dark sky.

Within the walls the greater part of Frankfort is built in the old
German style--the houses six or seven stones high, and every story
projecting out over the other, so that those living in the upper part
can nearly shake hands out of the windows. At the corners figures of men
are often seen, holding up the story above on their shoulders and making
horrible faces at the weight. When I state that in all these narrow
streets which constitute the greater part of the city, there are no
sidewalks, the windows of the lower stories with an iron grating
extending a foot or so into the street, which is only wide enough for
one cart to pass along, you can have some idea of the facility of
walking through them, to say nothing of the piles of wood, and
market-women with baskets of vegetables which one is continually
stumbling over. Even in the wider streets, I have always to look before
and behind to keep out of the way of the fiacres; the people here get so
accustomed to it, that they leave barely room for them to pass, and the
carriages go dashing by at a nearness which sometimes makes me shudder.

As I walked across the Main, and looked down at the swift stream on its
way from the distant Thuringian forest to join the Rhine, I thought of
the time when Schiller stood there in the days of his early struggles,
an exile from his native land, and looking over the bridge, said in the
loneliness of his heart, "That water flows not so deep as my
sufferings!" In the middle, on an iron ornament, stands the golden cock
at which Goethe used to marvel when a boy. Perhaps you have not heard
the legend connected with this. The bridge was built several hundred
years ago, with such strength and solidity that it will stand many
hundred yet. The architect had contracted to build it within a certain
time, but as it drew near, without any prospect of fulfilment, the devil
appeared to him and promised to finish it, on condition of having the
first soul that passed over it. This was agreed upon end the devil
performed his part of the bargain. The artist, however, on the day
appointed, drove a cook across before he suffered any one to pass over
it. His majesty stationed himself under the middle arch of the bridge,
awaiting his prey; but enraged at the cheat, he tore the unfortunate
fowl in pieces and broke two holes in the arch, saying they should never
be built up again. The golden cock was erected on the bridge as a token
of the event, but the devil has perhaps lost some of his power in these
latter days, for the holes were filled up about thirty years ago.

From the hills on the Darmstadt road, I had a view of the country
around--the fields were white and bare, and the dark Tannus, with the
broad patches of snow on his sides, looked grim and shadowy through the
dim atmosphere. It was like the landscape of a dream--dark, strange and
silent. The whole of last month we saw the sun but two or three days,
the sky being almost continually covered with a gloomy fog. England and
Germany seem to have exchanged climates this year, for in the former
country we had delightfully clear weather.

I have seen the banker Rothschild several times driving about the city.
This one--Anselmo, the most celebrated of the brothers--holds a mortgage
on the city of Jerusalem. He rides about in style, with officers
attending his carriage. He is a little bald-headed man, with marked
Jewish features, and is said not to deceive his looks. At any rate, his
reputation is none of the best, either with Jews or Christians. A
caricature was published some time ago, in which he is represented as
giving a beggar woman by the way-side, a kreutzer--the smallest German
coin. She is made to exclaim, "God reward you, a thousand fold!" He
immediately replies, after reckoning up in his head: "How much have I
then?--sixteen florins and forty kreutzers!"

I have lately heard one of the most perfectly beautiful creations that
ever emanated from the soul of genius--the opera of Fidelio. I have
caught faint glimpses of that rich world of fancy and feeling, to which
music is the golden door. Surrendering myself to the grasp of
Beethoven's powerful conception, I read in sounds far more expressive
than words, the almost despairing agony of the strong-hearted, but
still tender and womanly Fidelio--the ecstatic joy of the wasted
prisoner, when he rose from his hard couch in the dungeon, seeming to
fuel, in his maniac brain, the presentiment of a bright being who would
come to unbind his chains--and. the sobbing and wailing, almost-human,
which came from the orchestra, when they dug his grave, by the dim
lantern's light. When it was done, the murderer stole into the dungeon,
to gloat on the agonies of his victim, ere he gave the death-blow. Then,
while the prisoner is waked to reason by that sight, and Fidelio throws
herself before the uplifted dagger, rescuing her husband with the
courage which love gives to a woman's heart, the storm of feeling which
has been gathering in the music, swells to a height beyond which it
seemed impossible for the soul to pass. My nerves were thrilled till I
could bear no more. A mist seemed to come before my eyes and I scarcely
knew what followed, till the rescued kneeled together and poured forth
in the closing hymn the painful fullness of their joy. I dreaded the
sound of voices after the close, and the walk home amid the harsh
rattling of vehicles on the rough streets. For days afterwards my brain
was filled with a mingled and confused sense of melody, like the
half-remembered music of a dream.

Why should such magnificent creations of art be denied the new world?
There is certainly enthusiasm and refinement of feeling enough at home
to appreciate them, were the proper direction given to the popular
taste. What country possesses more advantages to foster the growth of
such an art, than ours? Why should not the composer gain mighty
conceptions from the grandeur of our mountain scenery, from the howling
of the storm through our giant forests, from the eternal thunder of
Niagara? All these collateral influences, which more or less tend to the
development and expansion of genius, are characteristics of our country;
and a taste for musical compositions of a refined and lofty character,
would soon give birth to creators.

Fortunately for our country, this missing star in the crown of her
growing glory, will probably soon be replaced. Richard S. Willis, with
whom we have lived in delightful companionship, since coming here, has
been for more than two years studying and preparing himself for the
higher branches of composition. The musical talent he displayed while
at college, and the success following the publication of a set of
beautiful waltzes he there composed, led him to choose this most
difficult but lofty path; the result justifies his early promise and
gives the most sanguine anticipations for the future. He studied the
first two years here under Schnyder von Wartensee, a distinguished Swiss
composer; and his exercises have met with the warmest approval from
Mendelsohn, at present the first German composer, and Rinck, the
celebrated organist. The enormous labor and application required to go
through the preparatory studies alone, would make it seem almost
impossible for one with the restless energy of the American character,
to undertake it; but as this very energy gives genius its greatest
power, we may now trust with confidence that Willis, since he has nearly
completed his studies, will win himself and his country honor in the
difficult path he has chosen.

One evening, after sunset, we took a stroll around the promenades. The
swans were still floating on the little lake, and the American poplar
beside it, was in its full autumn livery. As we made the circuit of the
walks, guns were firing far and near, celebrating the opening of the
vintage the next day, and rockets went glittering and sparkling up into
the dark air. Notwithstanding the late hour and lowering sky, the walks
were full of people and we strolled about with them till it grew quite
dark, watching the fire-works which arose from the gardens around.

The next day, we went into the Frankfort wood. Willis and his
brother-in-law, Charles F. Dennett, of Boston, Dr. Dix and another young
gentleman from the same city, formed the party--six Americans in all; we
walked over the Main and through the dirty suburbs of Sachsenhausen,
where we met many peasants laden with the first day's vintage, and
crowds of people coming down from the vineyards. As we ascended the
hill, the sound of firing was heard in every direction, and from many
vineyards arose the smoke of fires where groups of merry children were
collecting and burning the rubbish. We became lost among the winding
paths of the pine forest, so that by the time we came out upon the
eminence overlooking the valley of the Main, it was quite dark. From
every side, far and near, rockets of all sizes and colors darted high
up into the sky. Sometimes a flight of the most brilliant crimson and
gold lights rushed up together, then again by some farm-house in the
meadow, the vintagers would burn a Roman candle, throwing its powerful
white light on the gardens and fields around. We stopped under a garden
wall, by which a laughing company were assembled in the smoke and red
blaze, and watched several comets go hissing and glancing far above us.
The cracking of ammunition still continued, and when we came again upon
the bridge, the city opposite was lighted as if illuminated. The full
moon had just risen, softening and mellowing the beautiful scene, while
beyond, over the tower of Frankfort, rose and fell the meteors that
heralded the vintage.

Since I have been in Frankfort, an event has occurred, which shows very
distinctly the principles at work in Germany, and gives us some
foreboding of the future. Ferdinand Freiligrath, the first living poet
with the exception of Uhland, has within a few weeks published a volume
of poems entitled, "My Confession of Faith, or Poems for the Times." It
contains some thrilling appeals to the free spirit of the German people,
setting forth the injustice under which they labor, in simple but
powerful language, and with the most forcible illustrations, adapted to
the comprehension of everyone. Viewed as a work of genius alone, it is
strikingly powerful and original: but when we consider the effect it is
producing among the people--the strength it will add to the rising tide
of opposition to every form of tyranny, it has a still higher interest.
Freiligrath had three or four years before, received a pension of three
hundred thalers from the King of Prussia, soon after his accession to
the throne: he ceased to draw this about a year ago, stating in the
preface to his volume that it was accepted in the belief the King would
adhere to his promise of giving the people a new constitution, but that
now since free spirit which characterises these men, who come from
among the people, shows plainly the tendency of the times; and it is
only the great strength with which tyranny here has environed himself,
and the almost lethargic _slowness_ of the Germans, which has prevented
a change ere this.

In this volume of Freiligrath's, among other things, is a translation of
Bryant's magnificent poem "The Winds," and Burns's "A man's a man for a'
that;" and I have translated one of his, as a specimen of the spirit in
which they are written:

    FREEDOM AND RIGHT.

    Oh! think not she rests in the grave's chilly slumber
      Nor sheds o'er the present her glorious light,
    Since Tyranny's shackles the free soul incumber
      And traitors accusing, deny to us Right!
    No: whether to exile the sworn ones are wending,
    Or weary of power that crushed them unending,
    In dungeons have perished, their veins madly rending,[*]
      Yet Freedom still liveth, and with her, the Right!
                                            Freedom and Right!

    A single defeat can confuse us no longer:
      It adds to the combat's last gathering might,
    It bids us but doubly to struggle, and stronger
      To raise up our battle-cry--"Freedom and Right!"
    For the Twain know a union forever abiding,
    Together in Truth and in majesty striding;
    Where Right is, already the free are residing
      And ever, where dwell the free, governeth Right!
                                            Freedom and Right!

    And this is a trust: never made, us at present,
      The glad pair from battle to battle their flight;
    Never breathed through the soul of the down-trodden peasant,
      Their spirit so deeply its promptings of light!
    They sweep o'er the earth with a tempest-like token;
    From strand unto strand words of thunder are spoken:
    Already the serf finds his manacles broken,
      And those of the negro are falling from sight
                                            Freedom and Right!

    Yes, every where wide is their war-banner waving.
      On the armies of Wrong their revenge to requite;
    The strength of Oppression they boldly are braving
      And at last they will conquer, resistless in might!
    Oh, God! what a glorious wreath then appearing
    Will blend every leaf in the banner they're bearing--The
    olive of Greece and the shamrock of Erin,
      And the oak-bough of Germany, greenest in light!
                                            Freedom and Right!

    And many who suffered, are now calmly sleeping,
      The slumber of freemen, borne down by the fight;
    While the Twain o'er their graves still a bright watch are keeping,
      Whom we bless for their memories--Freedom and Right!
    Meanwhile lift your glasses! to those who have striven!
    And striving with bold hearts, to misery were driven!
    Who fought for the Right and but Wrong then were given!
      To Right, the immortal--to Freedom through Right!
                                            Freedom through Right!

[Footnote *: This allusion is to Weidig, who, imprisoned for years at
Darmstadt on account of his political principles, finally committed
suicide by cutting his throat with the glass of his prison-window.]




CHAPTER XII.

A WEEK AMONG THE STUDENTS.


Receiving a letter from my cousin one bright December morning, the idea
of visiting him struck me, and so, within an hour, B---- and I were on
our way to Heidelberg. It was delightful weather; the air was mild as
the early days of spring, the pine forests around wore a softer green,
and though the sun was but a hand's breadth high, even at noon, it was
quite warm on the open road. We stopped for the night at Bensheim; the
next morning was as dark as a cloudy day in the north can be, wearing a
heavy gloom I never saw elsewhere. The wind blew the snow down from the
summits upon us, but being warm from walking, we did not heed it. The
mountains looked higher than in summer, and the old castles more grim
and frowning. From the hard roads and freezing wind, my feet became very
sore, and after limping along in excruciating pain for a league or two,
I filled my boots with brandy, which deadened the wounds so much, that I
was enabled to go on in a kind of trot, which I kept up, only stopping
ten minutes to dinner, till we reached Heidelberg.

The same evening there was to be a general _commers_, or meeting of the
societies among the students, and I determined not to omit witnessing
one of the most interesting and characteristic features of student-life.
So borrowing a cap and coat, I looked the student well enough to pass
for one of them, though the former article was somewhat of the
_Philister_ form. Baader, a young poet of some note, and president of
the "Palatia" Society, having promised to take us there, we met at
eight o'clock at an inn frequented by the students, and went to the
rendezvous, near the Markt Platz.

A confused sound of voices came from the inn, as we drew near; groups of
students were standing around the door. In the entry we saw the Red
Fisherman, one of the most conspicuous characters about the University.
He is a small, stout man, with bare neck and breast, red hair, whence
his name, and a strange mixture of roughness and benevolence in his
countenance. He has saved many persons at the risk of his own life, from
drowning in the Neckar, and on that account is leniently dealt with by
the faculty whenever he is arrested for assisting the students in any of
their unlawful proceedings. Entering the room I could scarcely see at
first, on account of the smoke that ascended from a hundred pipes. All
was noise and confusion. Near the door sat some half dozen musicians who
were getting their instruments ready for action, and the long room was
filled with tables, all of which seemed to be full and the students were
still pressing in. The tables were covered with great stone jugs and
long beer glasses; the students were talking and shouting and
drinking.--One who appeared to have the arrangement of the meeting,
found seats for us together, and having made a slight acquaintance with
those sitting next us, we felt more at liberty to witness their
proceedings. They were all talking in a sociable, friendly way, and I
saw no one who appeared to be intoxicated. The beer was a weak mixture,
which I should think would make one fall over from its _weight_ before
it would intoxicate him. Those sitting near me drank but little, and
that principally to make or return compliments. One or two at the other
end of the table were more boisterous, and more than one glass was
overturned on the legs below it. Leaves containing the songs for the
evening lay at each seat, and at the head, where the President sat, were
two swords crossed, with which he occasionally struck upon the table to
preserve order. Our President was a fine, romantic-looking young man,
dressed in the old German costume, which is far handsomer than the
modern. I never saw in any company of young men, so many handsome, manly
countenances. If their faces were any index of their characters, there
were many noble, free souls among them. Nearly opposite to me sat a
young poet, whose dark eyes flashed with feeling as he spoke to those
near him. After some time passed in talking and drinking together,
varied by an occasional air from the musicians, the President beat order
with the sword, and the whole company joined in one of their glorious
songs, to a melody at the same time joyous and solemn. Swelled by so
many manly voices it rose up like a hymn of triumph--all other sounds
were stilled. Three times during the singing all rose up, clashed their
glasses together around the tables and drank to their Fatherland, a
health and blessing to the patriot, and honor to those who struggle in
the cause of freedom, at the close thundering out their motto:

    "Fearless in strife, to the banner still true!"

After this song the same order as before was continued, except that
students from the different societies made short speeches, accompanied
by some toast or sentiment. One spoke of Germany--predicting that all
her dissensions would be overcome, and she would rise up at last, like a
phoenix among the nations of Europe; and at the close gave 'strong,
united, regenerated Germany!' Instantly all sprang to their feet, and
clashing the glasses together, gave a thundering "_hoch!_" This
enthusiasm for their country is one of the strongest characteristics of
the German students; they have ever been first in the field for her
freedom, and on them mainly depends her future redemption.

Cloths were passed around, the tables wiped off, and preparations made
to sing the "_Landsfather_" or consecration song. This is one of the
most important and solemn of their ceremonies, since by performing it
the new students are made _burschen_, and the bands of brotherhood
continually kept fresh and sacred. All became still a moment, then they
commenced the lofty song:

    "Silent bending, each one lending
      To the solemn tones his ear,
    Hark, the song of songs is sounding--
    Back from joyful choir resounding,
      Hear it, German brothers, hear!

    "German proudly, raise it loudly,
      Singing of your fatherland--
    Fatherland! thou land of story,
    To the altars of thy glory
      Consecrate us, sword in hand!

    "Take the beaker, pleasure seeker,
      With thy country's drink brimmed o'er!
    In thy left the sword is blinking.
    Pierce it through the cap, while drinking
      To thy Fatherland once more!"

With the first line of the last stanza, the Presidents sitting at the
head of the table, take their glasses in their right hands, and at the
third line, the sword in their left, at the end striking their glasses
together and drinking.

    "In left hand gleaming, thou art beaming,
      Sword from all dishonour free!
    Thus I pierce the cap, while swearing,
    It in honor ever wearing,
      I a valiant Bursch will be!"

They clash their swords together till the third line is sung, when each
takes his cap, and piercing the point of the sword through the crown,
draws it down to the guard. Leaving their caps on the swords, the
Presidents stand behind the two next students, who go through the same
ceremony, receiving the swords at the appropriate time, and giving it
back loaded with their caps also. This ceremony is going on at every
table at the same time. These two stanzas are repeated for every pair of
students, till all have gone through with it, and the Presidents have
arrived at the bottom of the table, with their swords strung full of
caps. Here they exchange swords, while all sing:

    "Come thou bright sword, now made holy,
      Of free men the weapon free;
    Bring it solemnly and slowly,
      Heavy with pierced caps, to me!
    From its burden now divest it;
      Brothers be ye covered all,
      And till our next festival,
    Hallowed and unspotted rest it!

    "Up, ye feast companions! ever
      Honor ye our holy band!
    And with heart and soul endeavor
      E'er as high-souled men to stand!
    Up to feast, ye men united!
      Worthy be your fathers' fame,
      And the sword may no one claim,
    Who to honor is not plighted!"

Then each President, taking a cap of his sword, reached it to the
student opposite, and they crossed their swords, the ends resting on the
two students' heads, while they sang the next stanza:

    "So take it back; thy head I now will cover
      And stretch the bright sword over.
    Live also then this Bursche, hoch!
      Wherever we may meet him,
      Will we, as Brother greet him--
    Live also this, our Brother, hoch!"

This ceremony was repeated till all the caps were given back, and they
then concluded with the following:

    "Rest, the Bursehen-feast is over,
      Hallowed sword and thou art free!
    Each one strive a valiant lover
      Of his fatherland to be!
    Hail to him, who, glory-haunted,
      Follows still his fathers bold;
      And the sword may no one hold
    But the noble and undaunted!"

The Landsfather being over, the students were less orderly; the smoking
and drinking began again and we left, as it was already eleven o'clock,
glad to breathe the pure cold air.

In the University I heard Gervinus, who was formerly professor in
Göttingen, but was obliged to leave on account of his liberal
principles. He is much liked by the students and his lectures are very
well attended. They had this winter a torchlight procession in honor of
him. He is a stout, round-faced man, speaks very fast, and makes them
laugh continually with his witty remarks. In the room I saw a son of
Rückert, the poet, with a face strikingly like his father's. The next
evening I went to hear Schlosser, the great historian. Among his pupils
are the two princes of Baden, who are now at the University. He came
hurriedly in, threw down his portfolio and began instantly to speak. He
is an old, gray-headed man, but still active and full of energy. The
Germans find him exceedingly difficult to understand, as he is said to
use the English construction almost entirely; for this reason, perhaps,
I understood him quite easily. He lectures on the French Revolution, but
is engaged in writing a Universal History, the first numbers of which
are published.

Two or three days after, we heard that a duel was to take place at
Neuenheim, on the opposite side of the Neckur, where the students have a
house hired for that purpose. In order to witness the spectacle, we
started immediately with two or three students. Along the road were
stationed old women, at intervals, as guards, to give notice of the
approach of the police, and from these we learned that one duel had
already been fought, and they were preparing for the other. The Red
Fisherman was busy in an outer room grinding the swords, which are made
as sharp as razors. In the large room some forty or fifty students were
walking about, while the parties were preparing. This was done by taking
off the coat and vest and binding a great thick leather garment on,
which reached from the breast to the knees, completely protecting the
body. They then put on a leather glove reaching nearly to the shoulder,
tied a thick cravat around the throat, and drew on a cap with a large
vizor. This done, they were walked about the room a short time, the
seconds holding out their arms to strengthen them; their faces all this
time betrayed considerable anxiety.

All being ready, the seconds took their stations immediately behind
them, each armed with a sword, and gave the words: "_ready--bind your
weapons--loose!_" They instantly sprang at each other, exchanged two or
three blows, when the seconds cried "halt!" and struck their swords up.
Twenty-four rounds of this kind ended the duel, without either being
hurt, though the cap of one of them was cut through and his forehead
grazed. All their duels do not end so fortunately, however, as the
frightful scars on the faces of many of those present, testified. It is
a gratification to know that but a small portion of the students keep up
this barbarous custom. The great body is opposed to it; in Heidelberg,
four societies, comprising more than one half the students, have been
formed against it. A strong desire for such a reform seems to prevail,
and the custom will probably be totally discontinued in a short time.

This view of the student-life was very interesting to me; it appeared in
a much better light than I had been accustomed to view it. Their
peculiar customs, except duelling and drinking, of course, may be the
better tolerated when we consider their effect on the liberty of
Germany. It is principally through them that a free spirit is kept
alive; they have ever been foremost to rise up for their Fatherland, and
bravest in its defence. And though many of their customs have so often
been held up to ridicule, among no other class can one find warmer,
truer or braver hearts.




CHAPTER XIII.

CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR IN GERMANY.


_Jan. 2, 1845._--I have lately been computing how much my travels have
cost me up to the present time, and how long I can remain abroad to
continue the pilgrimage, with my present expectations. The result has
been most encouraging to my plan. Before leaving home, I wrote to
several gentlemen who had visited Europe, requesting the probable
expense of travel and residence abroad. They sent different accounts; E.
Joy Morris said I must calculate to spend at least $1500 a year; another
suggested $1000, and the most moderate of all, said that it was
_impossible_ to live in Europe a year on less than $500. Now, six months
have elapsed since I left home--six months of greater pleasure and
profit than any _year_ of my former life--and my expenses, in full,
amount to $130! This, however, nearly exhausts the limited sum with
which I started, but through the kindness of the editorial friends who
have been publishing my sketches of travel, I trust to receive a
remittance shortly. Printing is a business attended with so little
profit here, as there are already so many workmen, that it is almost
useless for a stranger to apply. Besides, after a tough grapple, I am
just beginning to master the language, and it seems so necessary to
devote every minute to study, that I would rather undergo some
privation, than neglect turning these fleeting hours into gold, for the
miser Memory to stow away in the treasure-vaults of the mind.

We have lately witnessed the most beautiful and interesting of all
German festivals--Christmas. This is here peculiarly celebrated. About
the commencement of December, the Christmarkt or fair, was opened in the
Roemerberg, and has continued to the present time. The booths, decorated
with green boughs, were filled with toys of various kinds, among which
during the first days the figure of St. Nicholas was conspicuous. There
were bunches of wax candles to illuminate the Christmas tree,
gingerbread with printed mottos in poetry, beautiful little earthenware,
basket-work, and a wilderness of playthings. The 5th of December, being
Nicholas evening, the booths were lighted up, and the square was filled
with boys, running from one stand to another, all shouting and talking
together in the most joyous confusion. Nurses were going around,
carrying the smaller children in their arms, and parents bought presents
decorated with sprigs of pine and carried them away. Some of the shops
had beautiful toys, as for instance, a whole grocery store in miniature,
with barrels, boxes and drawers, all filled with sweetmeats, a kitchen
with a stove and all suitable utensils, which could really be used, and
sets of dishes of the most diminutive patterns. All was a scene of
activity and joyous feeling.

Many of the tables had bundles of rods with gilded bands, which were to
be used that evening by the persons who represented St. Nicholas. In the
family with whom we reside, one of our German friends dressed himself
very comically, with a mask, fur robe and long tapering cap. He came in
with a bunch of rods and a sack, and a broom for a sceptre. After we all
had received our share of the beating, he threw the contents of his bag
on the table, and while we were scrambling for the nuts and apples, gave
us many smart raps over the fingers. In many families the children are
made to say, "I thank you, Herr Nicolaus," and the rods are hung up in
the room till Christmas to keep them in good behavior. This was only a
forerunner of the Christ-kindchen's coming. The Nicolaus is the
punishing spirit, the Christ-kindchen the rewarding one.

When this time was over, we all began preparing secretly our presents
for Christmas. Every day there were consultations about the things which
should be obtained. It was so arranged that all should interchange
presents, but nobody must know beforehand what he would receive. What
pleasure there was in all these secret purchases and preparations!
Scarcely anything was thought or spoken of but Christmas, and every day
the consultations became more numerous and secret. The trees were bought
sometime beforehand, but as we were to witness the festival for the
first time, we were not allowed to see them prepared, in order that the
effect might be as great as possible. The market in the Roeinerberg
Square grew constantly larger and more brilliant. Every night it was lit
up with lamps and thronged with people. Quite a forest sprang up in the
street before our door. The old stone house opposite, with the traces of
so many centuries on its dark face, seemed to stand in the midst of a
garden. It was a pleasure to go out every evening and see the children
rushing to and fro, shouting and seeking out toys from the booths, and
talking all the time of the Christmas that was so near. The poor people
went by with their little presents hid under their cloaks, lest their
children might see them; every heart was glad and every countenance wore
a smile of secret pleasure.

Finally the day before Christmas arrived. The streets were so full I
could scarce make my way through, and the sale of trees went on more
rapidly than ever. These wore commonly branches of pine or fir, set
upright in a little miniature garden of moss. When the lamps were
lighted at night, our street had the appearance of an illuminated
garden. We were prohibited from entering the rooms up stairs in which
the grand ceremony was to take place, being obliged to take our seats in
those arranged for the guests, and wait with impatience the hour when
Christ-kindchen should call. Several relations of the family came, and
what was more agreeable, they brought with them five or six children. I
was anxious to see how they would view the ceremony. Finally, in the
middle of an interesting conversation, we heard the bell ringing up
stairs. We all started up, and made for the door. I ran up the steps
with the children at my heels, and at the top met a blaze of light
coming from the open door, that dazzled me. In each room stood a great
table, on which the presents were arranged, amid flowers and wreaths.
From the centre, rose the beautiful Christmas tree covered with wax
tapers to the very top, which made it nearly as light as day, while
every bough was hung with sweetmeats and gilded nuts. The children ran
shouting around the table, hunting their presents, while the older
persons had theirs pointed out to them. I had qui'e a little library of
German authors as my share; and many of the others received quite
valuable gifts.

But how beautiful was the heart-felt joy that shone on every
countenance! As each one discovered he embraced the givers, and all was
a scene of the purest feelings. It is a glorious feast, this Christmas
time! What a chorus from happy hearts went up on that evening to Heaven!
Full of poetry and feeling and glad associations, it is here anticipated
with joy, and leaves a pleasant memory behind it. We may laugh at such
simple festivals at home, and prefer to shake ourselves loose from every
shackle that bears the rust of the Past, but we would certainly be
happier if some of these beautiful old customs were better honored. They
renew the bond of feeling between families and friends, and strengthen
their kindly sympathy; even life-long friends require occasions of this
kind to freshen the wreath that binds them together.

New Year's Eve is also favored with a peculiar celebration in Germany.
Every body remains up and makes himself merry till midnight. The
Christmas trees are again lighted, and while the tapers are burning
down, the family play for articles which they have purchased and hung on
the boughs. It is so arranged that each one shall win as much as he
gives, which change of articles makes much amusement. One of the ladies
rejoiced in the possession of a red silk handkerchief and a cake of
soap, while a cup and saucer and a pair of scissors fell to my lot! As
midnight drew near, it was louder in the streets, and companies of
people, some of them singing in chorus, passed by on their way to the
Zeil. Finally three-quarters struck, the windows were opened and every
one waited anxiously for the clock to strike. At the first sound, such a
cry arose as one may imagine, when thirty or forty thousand persons all
set their lungs going at once. Every body in the house, in the street,
over the whole city, shouted, _"Prosst Neu Jahr?"_ In families, all the
members embrace each other, with wishes of happiness for the new year.
Then the windows are thrown open, and they cry to their neighbors or
those passing by.

After we had exchanged congratulations, Dennett, B---- and I set out for
the Zeil. The streets were full of people, shouting to one another and
to those standing at the open windows. We failed not to cry, _"Prosst
Neu Jahr!"_ wherever we saw a damsel at the window, and the words came
back to us more musically than we sent them. Along the Zeil the
spectacle was most singular. The great wide street was filled with
companies of men, marching up and down, while from the mass rang up one
deafening, unending shout, that seemed to pierce the black sky above.
The whole scene looked stranger and wilder from the flickering light of
the swinging lamps, and I could not help thinking it must resemble a
night in Paris during the French Revolution. We joined the crowd and
used our lungs as well as any of them. For some time after we returned
home, companies passed by, singing "with us 'tis ever so!" but at three
o'clock all was again silent.




CHAPTER XIV.

WINTER IN FRANKFORT--A FAIR, AN INUNDATION AND A FIRE.


After New Year, the Main, just above the city, and the lakes in the
promenades, were frozen over. The ice was tried by the police, and
having been found of sufficient thickness, to the great joy of the
schoolboys, permission was given to skate. The lakes were soon covered
with merry skaters, and every afternoon the banks were crowded with
spectators. It was a lively sight to see two or three hundred persons
darting about, turning and crossing like a flock of crows, while, by
means of arm-chairs mounted on runners, the ladies were enabled to join
in the sport, and whirl around among them. Some of the broad meadows
near the city, which were covered with water, were the resort of the
schools. I went there often in my walks, and always found two or three
schools, with the teachers, all skating together, and playing their
winter games on the ice. I have often seen them on the meadows along the
Main; the teachers generally made quite as much noise as the scholars in
their sports.

In the Art Institute I saw the picture of "Huss before the Council of
Constance," by the painter Lessing. It contains upwards of twenty
figures. The artist has shown the greatest skill in the expression and
grouping of these. Bishops and Cardinals in their splendid robes are
seated around a table, covered with parchment folios, and before them
stands Huss alone. His face, pale and thin with long imprisonment, he
has lain one hand on his breast, while with the other he has grasped one
of the volumes on the table; there is an air of majesty, of heavenly
serenity on his lofty forehead and calm eye. One feels instinctively
that he has truth on his side. There can be no deception, no falsehood
in those noble features. The three Italian cardinals before him appear
to be full of passionate rage; the bishop in front, who holds the
imperial pass given to Huss, looks on with an expression of scorn, and
the priests around have an air of mingled curiosity and hatred. There is
one, however, in whose mild features and tearful eye is expressed
sympathy and pity for the prisoner. It is said this picture has had a
great effect upon Catholics who have seen it, in softening the bigotry
with which they regarded the early reformers; and if so, it is a
triumphant proof how much art can effect in the cause of truth and
humanity. I was much interested in a cast of the statue of St. George,
by the old Italian sculptor Donatello. It is a figure full of youth and
energy, with a countenance that seems to breathe. Donatello was the
teacher of Michael Angelo, and when the young sculptor was about setting
off for Rome, he showed him the statue, his favorite work. Michael gazed
at it long and intensely, and at length, on parting, said to Donatello,
"It wants but one thing." The artist pondered long over this expression,
for he could not imagine in what could fail the matchless figure. At
length, after many years, Michael Angelo, in the noon of his renown,
visited the death-bed of his old master. Donatello begged to know,
before he died, what was wanting to his St. George. Angelo answered,
"_the gift of speech!_" and a smile of triumph lighted the old man's
face, as he closed his eyes forever.

The Eschernheim Tower, at the entrance of one of the city gates, is
universally admired by strangers, on account of its picturesque
appearance, overgrown with ivy and terminated by the little pointed
turrets, which one sees so often in Germany, on buildings three or four
centuries old. There are five other watch towers of similar form, which
stand on different sides of the city, at the distance of a mile or two,
and generally upon an eminence overlooking the country. They were
erected several centuries ago, to discern from afar the approach of an
enemy, and protect the caravans of merchants, which at that time
travelled from city to city, from the attacks of robbers. The
Eschernheim Tower is interesting from another circumstance, which,
whether true or not, is universally believed. When Frankfort was under
the sway of a prince, a Swiss hunter, for some civil offence, was
condemned to die. He begged his life from the prince, who granted it
only on condition that he should fire the figure 9 with his rifle
through the vane of this tower. He agreed, and did it; and at the
present lime, one can distinguish a rude 9 on the vane, as if cut with
bullets, while two or three marks at the side appear to be from shots
that failed.

The promise of spring which lately visited us, was not destined for
fulfilment. Shortly afterwards it grew cold again, with a succession of
snows and sharp northerly winds. Such weather at the commencement of
spring is not uncommon at home; but here they say there has not been
such a winter known for 150 years. In the north of Prussia many persons
have been starved to death on account of provisions becoming scarce.
Among the Hartz also, the suffering is very great. We saw something of
the misery even here. It was painful to walk through the streets and see
so many faces bearing plainly the marks of want, so many pale,
hollow-eyed creatures, with suffering written on every feature. We were
assailed with petitions for help which could not be relieved, though it
pained and saddened the heart to deny. The women, too, labor like
brutes, day after day. Many of them appear cheerful and contented, and
are no doubt, tolerably happy, for the Germans have all true, warm
hearts, and are faithful to one another, as far as poverty will permit;
but one cannot see old, gray-headed women, carrying loads on their heads
as heavy as themselves, exposed to all kinds of weather and working from
morning till night, without pity and indignation.

So unusually severe has been the weather, that the deer and hares in the
mountains near, came nearly starved and tamed down by hunger, into the
villages to hunt food. The people fed them everyday, and also carried
grain into the fields for the partridges and pheasants, who flew up to
them like domestic fowls. The poor ravens made me really sorry; some lay
dead in the fields and many came into the city perfectly tame, flying
along the Main with wings hardly strong enough to boar up their skeleton
bodies. The storks came at the usual time, but went back again. I hope
the year's blessing has not departed with them, according to the old
German superstition.

_March 26._--We have hopes of spring at last. Three days ago the rain
began and has continued with little intermission till now. The air is
warm, the snow goes fast, and every thing seems to announce that the
long winter is breaking up. The Main rises fast, and goes by the city
like an arrow, whirling large masses of ice upon the banks. The hills
around are coming out from under the snow, and the lilac-buds in the
promenades begin to expand for the second time.

The Fair has now commenced in earnest, and it is a most singular and
interesting sight. The open squares are filled with booths, leaving
narrow streets between them, across which canvas is spread. Every booth
is open and filled with a dazzling display of wares of all kinds.
Merchants assemble from all parts of Europe. The Bohemians come with
their gorgeous crystal ware; the Nuremborgers with their toys, quaint
and fanciful as the old city itself; men from the Thuringian forest,
with minerals and canes, and traders from Berlin, Vienna, Paris and
Switzerland, with dry goods and wares of all kinds. Near the Exchange
are two or three companies of Tyrolese, who attract much of my
attention. Their costume is exceedingly picturesque. The men have all
splendid manly figures, and honor and bravery are written on their
countenances. One of the girls is a really handsome mountain maiden, and
with her pointed, broad-brimmed black hat, as romantic looking as one
could desire. The musicians have arrived, and we are entertained the
whole day long by wandering bands, some of whom play finely. The best,
which is also the favorite company, is from Saxony, called "The Mountain
Boys." They are now playing in our street, and while I write, one of the
beautiful choruses from Norma comes up through the din of the crowd. In
fact, music is heard over the whole city, and the throngs that fill
every street with all sorts of faces and dresses, somewhat relieve the
monotony that was beginning to make Frankfort tiresome.

We have an ever-varied and interesting scene from our window. Besides
the motley crowd of passers-by, there are booths and tables stationed
thick below. One man in particular is busily engaged in selling his
store of blacking in the auction style, in a manner that would do credit
to a real Down-caster. He has flaming certificates exhibited, and
prefaces his calls to buy with a high-sounding description of his
wonderful qualities. He has a bench in front, where he tests on the
shoes of his customers, or if none of those are disposed to try it, he
rubs it on his own, which shine like mirrors. So he rattles on with
amazing fluency in French, German and Italian, and this, with his black
beard and moustache and his polite, graceful manner, keeps a crowd of
customers around him, so that the wonderful blacking goes off as fast as
he can supply it.

_April 6._--Old Winter's gales are shut close behind us, and the sun
looks down with his summer countenance. The air, after the long cold
rain, is like that of Paradise. All things are gay and bright, and
everybody is in motion. Spring commenced with yesterday in earnest, and
lo! before night the roads were all dry and fine as if there had been no
rain for a month; and the gardeners dug and planted in ground which,
eight days before, was covered with snow!

After having lived through the longest winter here, for one hundred and
fifty years, we were destined to witness the greatest flood for sixty,
and little lower than any within the last three hundred years. On the
28th of March, the river overflooded the high pier along the Main, and
rising higher and higher, began to come into the gates and alleys.
Before night the whole bank was covered and the water intruded into some
of the booths in the Römerberg. When I went there the next morning, it
was a sorrowful sight. Persons were inside the gate with boats; so
rapidly had it risen, that many of the merchants had no time to move
their wares, and must suffer great damage. They were busy rescuing what
property could bo seized in the haste, and constructing passages into
the houses which were surrounded. No one seemed to think of buying or
selling, but only on the best method to escape the danger. Along the
Main it was still worse. From the measure, it had risen seventeen feet
above its usual level, and the arches of the bridge were filled nearly
to the top. At the Upper-Main gate, every thing was flooded--houses,
gardens, workshops, &c.; the water had even overrun the meadows above
and attacked the city from behind, so that a part of the beautiful
promenades lay deep under water. On the other side, we could see houses
standing in it up to the roof. It came up through the sewers into the
middle of Frankfort; a large body of men were kept at work constructing
slight bridges to walk on, and transporting boats to places where they
were needed. This was all done at the expense of the city; the greatest
readiness was everywhere manifested to render all possible assistance.
In the Fischergasse, I saw them taking provisions to the people in
boats; one man even fastened a loaf of bread to the end of a broomstick
and reached it across the narrow street from an upper story window, to
the neighbor opposite. News came that Hausen, a village towards the
Taunus, about two miles distant, was quite under water, and that the
people clung to the roofs and cried for help; but it was fortunately
false. About noon, cannon shots were heard, and twenty boats were sent
out from the city.

In the afternoon I ascended the tower of the Cathedral, which commands a
wide view of the valley, up and down. Just above the city the whole
plain was like a small lake--between two and three miles wide. A row of
new-built houses stretched into it like a long promontory, and in the
middle, like an island, stood a country-seat with large out-buildings.
The river sent a long arm out below, that reached up through the meadows
behind the city, as if to clasp it all and bear it away together. A
heavy storm was raging along the whole extent of the Taunus; but a
rainbow stood in the eastern sky. I thought of its promise, and hoped,
for the sake of the hundreds of poor people who were suffering by the
waters, that it might herald their fall.

We afterwards went over to Sachsenhausen, which was, if possible, in a
still more unfortunate condition. The water had penetrated the passages
and sewers, and from these leaped and rushed up into the streets, as out
of a fountain. The houses next to the Main, which were first filled,
poured torrents out of the doors and windows into the street below.
These people were nearly all poor, and could ill afford the loss of time
and damage of property it occasioned them. The stream was filled with
wood and boards, and even whole roofs, with the tiles on, went floating
down. The bridge was crowded with people; one saw everywhere mournful
countenances, and heard lamentations over the catastrophe. After sunset,
a great cloud, filling half the sky, hung above; the reflection of its
glowing crimson tint, joined to the brown hue of the water, made it seem
like a river of fire.

What a difference a little sunshine makes! I could have forgotten the
season the next day, but for the bare trees and swelling Main, as I
threaded my way through the hundreds of people who thronged its banks.
It was that soft warmth that comes with the first spring days, relaxing
the body and casting a dreamy hue over the mind. I leaned over the
bridge in the full enjoyment of it, and listening to the roaring of the
water under the arches, forgot every thing else for a time. It was
amusing to walk up and down the pier and look at the countenances
passing by, while the phantasy was ever ready, weaving a tale for all.
My favorite Tyrolese were there, and I saw a Greek leaning over the
stone balustrade, wearing the red cap and white frock, and with the long
dark hair and fiery eye of the Orient. I could not but wonder, as he
looked at the dim hills of the Odenwald, along the eastern horizon,
whether they called up in his mind the purple isles of his native
Archipelago.

The general character of a nation is plainly stamped on the countenances
of its people. One who notices the faces in the streets, can soon
distinguish, by the glance he gives in going by, the Englishman or the
Frenchman from the German, and the Christian from the Jew. Not less
striking is the difference of expression between the Germans themselves;
and in places where all classes of people are drawn together, it is
interesting to observe how accurately these distinctions are drawn. The
boys have generally handsome, intelligent faces, and like all boys, they
are full of life and spirit, for they know nothing of the laws by which
their country is chained down, and would not care for them, if they did.
But with the exception of the students, who _talk_, at least, of Liberty
and Right, the young men lose this spirit and at last settle down into
the calm, cautious, _lethargic_ citizen. One distinguishes an Englishman
and I should think an American, also, in this respect, very easily; the
former, moreover, by a certain cold stateliness and reserve. There is
something, however, about a Jew, whether English or German, which marks
him from all others. However different their faces, there is a family
character which runs through the whole of them. It lays principally in
their high cheek-bones, prominent nose and thin, compressed lips; which,
especially in elderly men, gives a peculiar miserly expression that is
unmistakeable. I regret to say, one looks almost in vain, in Germany,
for a handsome female countenance. Here and there, perhaps, is a woman
with regular features, but that intellectual expression, which gives
such a charm to the most common face, is wanting. I have seen more
beautiful women in one night, in a public assembly in America, than
during the seven months I have been on the Continent. Some of the young
Jewesses, in Frankfort, are considered handsome, but their features soon
become too strongly marked. In a public walk the number of positively
ugly faces is really astonishing.

About ten o'clock that night, I heard a noise of persons running in the
street, and going to the Römerberg, found the water had risen, all at
once, much higher, and was still rapidly increasing. People were setting
up torches and lengthening the rafts, which had been already formed. The
lower part of the city was a real Venice--the streets were full of boats
and people could even row about in their own houses; though it was not
quite so bad as the flood in Georgia, where they went _up stairs to bed_
in boats! I went to the bridge. Persons were calling around--"The water!
the water! it rises continually!" The river rushed through the arches,
foaming and dashing with a noise like thunder, and the red light of the
torches along the shore cost a flickering glare on the troubled waves.
It was then twenty-one feet above its usual level. Men were busy all
around, carrying boats and ladders to the places most threatened, or
emptying cellars into which it was penetrating. The sudden swelling was
occasioned by the coming down of the floods from the mountains of
Spessart.

Part of the upper quay cracked next morning and threatened to fall in,
and one of the projecting piers of the bridge sunk away from the main
body three or four inches. In Sachsenhausen the desolation occasioned by
the flood is absolutely frightful; several houses have fallen into total
ruin. All business was stopped for the day; the Exchange was even shut
up. As the city depends almost entirely on pumps for its supply of
water, and these were filled with the flood, we have been drinking the
muddy current of the Main ever since. The damage to goods is very great.
The fair was stopped at once, and the loss in this respect alone, must
be several millions of florins. The water began to fall on the 1st, and
has now sunk about ten feet, so that most of the houses are again
released, though in a bad condition.

Yesterday afternoon, as I was sitting in my room, writing, I heard all
at once an explosion like a cannon in the street, followed by loud and
continued screams. Looking out the window, I saw the people rushing by
with goods in their arms, some wringing their hands and crying, others
running in all directions. Imagining that it was nothing less than the
tumbling down of one of the old houses, we ran down and saw a store a
few doors distant in flames. The windows were bursting and flying out,
and the mingled mass of smoke and red flame reached half way across the
street. We learned afterwards it was occasioned by the explosion of a
jar of naphtha, which instantly enveloped the whole room in fire, the
people barely escaping in time. The persons who had booths near were
standing still in despair, while the flames were beginning to touch
their property. A few butchers who first came up, did almost everything.
A fire engine arrived soon, but it was ten minutes before it began to
play, and by that time the flames were coming out of the upper stories.
Then the supply of water soon failed, and though another engine came up
shortly after, it was sometime before it could be put in order, so that
by the time they got fairly to work, the fire had made its way nearly
through the house. The water was first brought in barrels drawn by
horses, till some officer came and opened the fire plug. The police were
busy at work seizing those who came by and setting them to work; and as
the alarm had drawn a great many together, they at last began to effect
something. All the military are obliged to bo out, and the officers
appeared eager to use their authority while they could, for every one
was ordering and commanding, till all was a scene of perfect confusion
and uproar. I could not help laughing heartily, so ludicrous did the
scene appear. There were little, miserable engines, not much bigger than
a hand-cart, and looking as if they had not been used for half a
century, the horses running backwards and forwards, dragging barrels
which were emptied into tubs, after which the water was finally dipped
up in buckets, and emptied into the engines! These machines can only
play into the second or third story, after which the hose was taken up
in the houses on the opposite side of the street, and made to play
across. After four hours the fire was overcome, the house being
thoroughly burnt out; it happened to have double fire walls, which
prevented those adjoining from catching easily.




CHAPTER XV.

THE DEAD AND THE DEAF--MENDELSSOHN THE COMPOSER.


It is now a luxury to breathe. These spring days are the perfection of
delightful weather. Imagine the delicious temperature of our Indian
summer joined to the life and freshness of spring, add to this a sky of
the purest azure, and a breeze filled with the odor of violets,--the
most exquisite of all perfumes--and you have some idea of it. The
meadows are beginning to bloom, and I have already heard the larks
singing high up in the sky. Those sacred birds, the storks, have
returned and taken possession of their old nests on the chimney-tops;
they are sometimes seen walking about in the fields, with a very grave
and serious air, as if conscious of the estimation in which they are
held. Everybody is out in the open air; the woods, although they still
look wintry, are filled with people, and the boatmen on the Main are
busy ferrying gay parties across. The spring has been so long in coming,
that all are determined to enjoy it well, while it lasts.

We visited the cemetery a few days ago. The dead-house, where corpses
are placed in the hope of resuscitation, is an appendage to cemeteries
found only in Germany. We were shown into a narrow chamber, on each side
of which were six cells, into which one could distinctly see, by means
of a large plate of glass. In each of these is a bier for the body,
directly above which hangs a cord, having on the end ten thimbles, which
are put upon the fingers of the corpse, so that the slightest motion
strikes a bell in the watchman's room. Lamps are lighted at night, and
in winter the rooms are warmed. In the watchman's chamber stands a clock
with a dial-plate of twenty-four hours, and opposite every hour is a
little plate, which can only be moved two minutes before it strikes. If
then the watchman has slept or neglected his duty at that time, he
cannot move it afterwards, and his neglect, is seen by the
superintendent. In such a case, he is severely lined, and for the second
or third offence, dismissed. There are other rooms adjoining, containing
beds, baths, galvanic battery, &c. Nevertheless, they say there has been
no resuscitation during the fifteen years it has been established.

We afterwards went to the end of the cemetery to see the bas-reliefs of
Thorwaldsen, in the vault of the Bethmann family. They are three in
number, representing the death of a son of the present banker, Moritz
von Bethmann, who was drowned in the Arno about fourteen years ago. The
middle one represents the young man drooping in his chair, the beautiful
Greek Angel of Death standing at his back, with one arm over his
shoulder, while his younger brother is sustaining him, and receiving the
wreath that drops from his sinking hand. The young woman who showed us
these, told us of Thorwaldsen's visit to Frankfort, about three years
ugo. She described him as a beautiful and venerable old man, with long
white locks hanging over his shoulders, still vigorous and active for
his years. There seems to have been much resemblance between him and
Dannecker--not only in personal appearance and character, but, in the
simple and classical beauty of their works.

The cemetery contains many other monuments; with the exception of one or
two by Launitz, and an exquisite Death Angel in sandstone, from a young
Frankfort sculptor, they are not remarkable. The common tomb-stone is a
white wooden cross; opposite the entrance is a perfect forest of them,
involuntarily reminding one of a company of ghosts, with outstretched
arms. These contain the names of the deceased with mottoes, some of
which are beautiful and touching, as for instance: "_Through darkness
unto light_;" "_Weep not for her; she is not dead, but sleepeth_"
"_Slumber sweet!_" etc. The graves are neatly bordered with grass, and
planted with flowers, and many of the crosses have withered wreathes
hanging upon them. In summer it is a beautiful place; in fact, the very
name of cemetery in German--_Friedhuf_ or Court of Peace--takes away the
idea of death; the beautiful figure of the youth, with his inverted
torch, makes one think of the grave only us a place of repose.

On our way back we stopped at the Institute for the Deaf; for by the
new method of teaching they are no longer dumb. It is a handsome
building in the gardens skirting the city. We applied, and on learning
we were strangers, they gave us permission to enter. On finding we were
Americans, the instructress immediately spoke of Dr. Howe, who had
visited the Institute a year or two before, and was much pleased to find
that Mr. Dennett was acquainted with him. She took us into a room where
about fifteen small children were assembled, and addressing one of the
girls, said in a distinct tone: "These gentlemen are from America; the
deaf children there speak with their fingers--canst thou speak so?" To
which the child answered distinctly, but with some effort: "No, we speak
with our mouths." She then spoke to several others with the same
success; one of the boys in particular, articulated with astonishing
success. It was interesting to watch their countenances, which were
alive with eager attention, and to see the apparent efforts they made to
utter the words. They spoke in a monotonous tone, slowly and
deliberately, but their voices had a strange, sepulchral sound, which
was at first unpleasant to the ear. I put one or two questions to a
little boy, which he answered quite readily; as I was a foreigner, this
was the best test that could be given of the success of the method. We
conversed afterwards with the director, who received us kindly, and
appointed a day for us to come and witness the system more fully. He
spoke of Dr. Howe and Horace Mann, of Boston, and seemed to take a great
interest in the introduction of his system in America.

We went again at the appointed time, and as their drawing teacher was
there, we had an opportunity of looking over their sketches, which were
excellent. The director showed us the manner of teaching them, with a
looking-glass, in which they were shown the different positions of the
organs of the mouth, and afterwards made to feel the vibrations of the
throat and breast, produced by the sound. He took one of the youngest
scholars, covered her eyes, and placing her hand upon his throat,
articulated the second sound of A. She followed him, making the sound
softer or louder as he did. All the consonants were made distinctly, by
placing her hand before his mouth. Their exercises in reading, speaking
with one another, and writing from dictation, succeeded perfectly. He
treated them all like his own children, and sought by jesting and
playing, to make the exercise appear as sport. They call him father and
appear to be much attached to him.

One of the pupils, about fourteen years old, interested me through his
history. lie and his sister were found in Sachsenhausen, by a Frankfort
merchant, in a horrible condition. Their mother had died about two years
and a half before, and during all that time their father had neglected
them till they were near dead through privation and filth. The boy was
placed in this Institute, and the girl in that of the Orphans. He soon
began to show a talent for modelling figures, and for some time he has
been taking lessons of the sculptor Launitz. I saw a beautiful copy of a
bas-relief of Thorwaldsen which he made, as well as an original, very
interesting, from its illustration of his history. It was in two parts;
the first represented himself and his sister, kneeling in misery before
a ruined family altar, by which an angel was standing, who took him by
one hand, while with the other he pointed to his benefactor, standing
near. The other represented the two kneeling in gratitude before a
restored altar, on which was the anchor of Hope. From above streamed
down a light, where two angels were rejoicing over their happiness. For
a boy of fourteen, deprived of one of the most valuable senses, and
taken from such a horrible condition of life, it is a surprising work
and gives brilliant hopes for his future.

We went lately into the Roemerberg, to see the Kaisersaal and the other
rooms formerly used by the old Emperors of Germany, and their Senates.
The former is now in the process of restoration. The ceiling is in the
gorgeous illuminated style of the middle ages; along each side arc rows
of niches for the portraits of the Emperors, which have been painted by
the best artists in Berlin, Dresden, Vienna and Munich. It is remarkable
that the number of the old niches in the hall should exactly correspond
with the number of the German Emperors, so that the portrait of the
Emperor Francis of Austria, who was the last, will close the long rank
coming down from Charlemagne. The pictures, or at least such of them as
are already finished, are kept in another room; they give one a good
idea of the changing styles of royal costumes, from the steel shirt and
helmet to the jewelled diadem and velvet robe. I looked with interest on
a painting of Frederic Barbarossa, by Leasing, and mused over the
popular tradition that he sits with his paladins in a mountain cave
under the Castle of Kyffhäuser, ready to come forth and assist his
Fatherland in the hour of need. There was the sturdy form of Maximilian;
the martial Conrad; and Ottos, Siegfrieds and Sigismunds in plenty--many
of whom moved a nation in their day, but are now dust and forgotten.

I yesterday visited Mendelssohn, the celebrated composer. Having heard
rame of his music this winter, particularly that magnificent creation,
the "Walpurgisnacht," I wished to obtain his autograph before leaving,
and sent a note for that purpose. He sent a kind note in answer, adding
a chorus out of the Walpurgisnacht from his own hand. After this, I
could not repress the desire of speaking with him. lie received me with
true German cordiality, and on learning I was an American, spoke of
having been invited to attend a musical festival in New York. He invited
me to call on him if he happened to bo in Leipsic or Dresden when we
should pass through, and spoke particularly of the fine music there. I
have rarely seen a man whose countenance bears so plainly the stamp of
genius. He has a glorious dark eye, and Byron's expression of a "dome of
thought," could never be more appropriately applied than to his lofty
and intellectual forehead, the marble whiteness and polish of which arc
heightened by the raven hue of his hair. He is about forty years of age,
in the noon of his fame and the full maturity of his genius. Already as
a boy of fourteen he composed an opera, which was played with much
success at Berlin; he is now the first living composer of Germany. Moses
Mendelssohn, the celebrated Jewish philosopher, was his grandfather; and
his father, now living, is accustomed to say that in his youth he was
spoken of as the son of the great Mendelssohn; now he is known as the
father of the great Mendelssohn!




CHAPTER XVI.

JOURNEY ON FOOT FROM FRANKFORT TO CASSEL.


The day for leaving Frankfort came at last, and I bade adieu to the
gloomy, antique, but still quaint and pleasant city. I felt like leaving
a second home, so much had the memories of many delightful hours spent
there attached me to it: I shall long retain the recollection of its
dark old streets, its massive, devil-haunted bridge and the ponderous
cathedral, telling of the times of the Crusaders. I toiled up the long
hill on the road to Friedberg, and from the tower at the top took a last
look at the distant city, with a heart heavier than the knapsack whose
unaccustomed weight rested uneasily on my shoulders. Being
alone--starting out into the wide world, where us yet I know no one,--I
felt much deeper what it was to find friends in a strange land. But such
is the wanderer's lot.

We had determined on making the complete tour of Germany on foot, and in
order to vary it somewhat, my friend and I proposed taking different
routes from Frankfort to Leipsic. He choose a circuitous course, by way
of Nuremberg and the Thuringian forests; while I, whose fancy had been
running wild with Goethe's witches, preferred looking on the gloom and
grandeur of the rugged Hartz. We both left Frankfort on the 23d of
April, each bearing a letter of introduction to the same person in
Leipsic, where we agreed to meet in fourteen days. As we were obliged to
travel as cheaply as possible, I started with but seventynine florins,
(a florin is forty cents American) well knowing that if I took more, I
should, in all probability, spend proportionally more also. Thus, armed
with my passport, properly _visèd_, a knapsack weighing fifteen pounds
and a cane from the Kentucky Mammoth Cave, I began my lonely walk
through Northern Germany. The warm weather of the week before had
brought out the foliage of the willows and other early trees--violets
and cowslips were springing up in the meadows. Keeping along the foot of
the Taunus, I passed over great, broad hills, which were brown with the
spring ploughing, and by sunset reached Friedberg--a, largo city, on the
summit of a hill. The next morning, after sketching its old, baronial
castle, I crossed the meadows to Nauheim, to see the salt springs there.
They are fifteen in number; the water, which is very warm, rushes up
with such force as to leap several feet above the earth. The buildings
made for evaporation are nearly two miles in length; a walk along the
top gives a delightful view of the surrounding valleys. After reaching
the _chaussée_ again, I was hailed by a wandering journeyman, or
_handwerker_, as they are called, who wanted company. As I had concluded
to accept all offers of this kind, we trudged along together very
pleasantly, He was from Holstein, on the borders of Denmark and was just
returning home, after an absence of six years, having escaped from
Switzerland after the late battle of Luzerne, which he had witnessed. He
had his knapsack and tools fastened on two wheels, which he drew after
him quite conveniently. I could not help laughing at the adroit manner
in which he begged his way along, through every village. He would ask me
to go on and wait for him at the other end; after a few minutes he
followed, with a handful of small copper money, which he said he had
_fought for_,--the handworker's term for _begged._

We passed over long ranges of hills, with an occasional view of the
Vogelsgebirge, or Bird's Mountains, far to the cast. I knew at length,
by the pointed summits of the hills, that we were approaching Giessen
and the valley of the Lahn. Finally, two sharp peaks appeared in the
distance, each crowned with a picturesque fortress, while the spires of
Giessen rose from the valley below. Parting from my companion, I passed
through the city without stopping, for it was the time of the university
vacation, and Dr. Liebeg, the world-renowned chemist, whom I desired to
see, was absent.

Crossing a hill or two, I came down into the valley of the Lahn, which
flows through meadows of the brightest green, with redroofed cottages
nestled among gardens and orchards upon its banks. The women here wear
a remarkable costume, consisting of a red boddice with white sleeves,
and a dozen skirts, one above another, reaching only to the knees. I
slept again at a little village among the hills, and started early for
Marburg. The meadows were of the purest emerald, through which the
stream wound its way, with even borders, covered to the water's edge
with grass so smooth and velvety, that a fairy might have danced along
on it for miles without stumbling over an uneven tuft. This valley is
one of the finest districts in Germany. I thought, as I saw the peaceful
inhabitants at work in their fields, I had most probably, on the
battle-field of Brandywine, walked over the bones of some of their
ancestors, whom a despotic prince had torn from their happy homes, to
die in a distant land, fighting against the cause of freedom.

I now entered directly into the heart of Hesse Cassel. The country
resembled a collection of hills thrown together in confusion--sometimes
a wide plain left between them, sometimes a clustre of wooded peaks, and
here and there a single pointed summit rising above the rest. The
vallies were green as ever, the hill-sides freshly ploughed and the
forests beginning to be colored by the tender foliage of the larch and
birch. I walked two or three hours at a "stretch," and then, when I
could find a dry, shady bank, I would rest for half an hour and finish
some hastily sketched landscape, or lay at full length, with my head on
my knapsack, and peruse the countenances of those passing by. The
observation which every traveller excites, soon ceases to be
embarrassing. It was at first extremely unpleasant; but I am now so
hardened, that the strange, magnetic influence of the human eye, which
we cannot avoid feeling, passes by me as harmlessly as if turned aside
by invisible mail.

During the day several showers came by, but as none of them penetrated
further than my blouse, I kept on, and reached about sunset a little
village in the valley. I chose a small inn, which had an air of neatness
about it, and on going in, the tidy landlady's "be you welcome," as she
brought a pair of slippers for my swollen feet, made me feel quite at
home. After being furnished with eggs, milk, butter and bread, for
supper, which I ate while listening to an animated discussion between
the village schoolmaster and some farmers, I was ushered into a clean,
sanded bedroom, and soon forgot all fatigue. For this, with breakfast in
the morning, the bill was six and a half groschen--about sixteen cents!
Tin air was freshened by the rain and I journeyed over the hills at a
rapid rate. Stopping for dinner at the large village of Wabern, a boy at
the inn asked me if I was going to America? I said no, I came from
there. He then asked me many silly questions, after which he ran out and
told the people of the village. When I set out again, the children
pointed at me and cried: "see there! he is from America!" and the men
took off their hats and bowed!

The sky was stormy, which added to the gloom of the hills around, though
some of the distant ranges lay in mingled light and shade--the softest
alternation of purple and brown. There were many isolated, rocky hills,
two of which interested me, through their attendant legends. One is said
to have been the scene of a battle between the Romans and Germans,
where, after a long conflict the rock opened and swallowed up the
former. The other, which is crowned with a rocky wall, so like a ruined
fortress, as at a distance to be universally mistaken for one, tradition
says is the death-place of Charlemagne, who still walks around its
summit every night, clad in complete armor. On ascending a hill late in
the afternoon, I saw at a great distance the statue of Hercules, which
stands on the Wilhelmshöhe, near Cassel. Night set in with a dreary
rain, and I stopped at an inn about five miles short of the city. While
tea was preparing a company of students came in and asked for a separate
room. Seeing I was alone, they invited me up with them. They seemed much
interested in America, and leaving the table gradually, formed a ring
around me, where I had enough to do to talk with them all at once. When
the omnibus came along, the most of them went with it to Cassel; but
five remained and persuaded me to set out with them on foot. They
insisted on carrying my knapsack the whole way, through the rain and
darkness, and when I had passed the city gate with them, unchallenged,
conducted me to the comfortable hotel, "_Zur Krone_."

It is a pleasant thing to wake up in the morning in a strange city.
Every thing is new; you walk around it for the first time in the full
enjoyment of the novelty, or the not less agreeable feeling of surprise,
if it is different from your anticipations. Two of my friends of the
previous night called for me in the morning, to show me around the city,
and the first impression, made in such agreeable company, prepossessed
me very favorably. I shall not, however, take up time in describing its
many sights, particularly the Frederick's Platz, where the statue of
Frederick the Second, who sold ten thousand of his subjects to England,
has been re-erected, after having lain for years in a stable where it
was thrown by the French.

I was much interested in young Carl K----, one of my new acquaintances.
His generous and unceasing kindness first won my esteem, and I found on
nearer acquaintance, the qualities of his mind equal those of his heart.
I saw many beautiful poems of his which were of remarkable merit,
considering his youth, and thought I could read in his dark, dreamy eye,
the unconscious presentiment of a power he does not yet possess. He
seemed as one I had known for years.

He, with a brother student, accompanied me in the afternoon, to
Wilhelmshöhe, the summer residence of the Prince, on the side of a range
of mountains three miles west of the city. The road leads in a direct
line to the summit of the mountain, which is thirteen hundred feet in
height, surmounted by a great structure, called the Giant's Castle, on
the summit of which is a pyramid ninety-six feet high, supporting a
statue of Hercules, copied after the Farnese, and thirty-one feet in
height. By a gradual ascent through beautiful woods, we reached the
princely residence, a magnificent mansion standing on a natural terrace
of the mountain. Near it is a little theatre built by Jerome Buonaparte,
in which he himself used to play. We looked into the green house in
passing, where the floral splendor of every zone was combined. There
were lofty halls, with glass roofs, where the orange grew to a great
tree, and one could sit in myrtle bowers, with the brilliant bloom of
the tropics around him. It was the only thing there I was guilty of
coveting.

The greatest curiosity is the water-works, which are perhaps unequalled
in the world. The Giant's Castle on the summit contains an immense tank
in which water is kept for the purpose; but unfortunately, at the time
I was there, the pipes, which had been frozen through the winter, were
not in condition to play. From the summit an inclined plane of masonry
descends the mountain nine hundred feet, broken every one hundred and
fifty feet by perpendicular descents. These are the Cascades, down which
the water first rushes from the tank. After being again collected in a
great basin at the bottom, it passes into an aqueduct, built like a
Roman ruin, and goes over beautiful arches through the forest, where it
falls in one sheet down a deep precipice. When it has descended several
other beautiful falls, made in exact imitation of nature, it is finally
collected and forms the great fountain, which rises twelve inches in
diameter from the middle of a lake to the height of one hundred and
ninety feet! We descended by lovely walks through the forest to the
Löwenburg, built as the ruin of a knightly castle, and fitted out in
every respect to correspond with descriptions of a fortress in the olden
time, with moat, drawbridge, chapel and garden of pyramidal trees.
Farther below, are a few small houses, inhabited by the descendants of
the Hessians who fell in America, supported here at the Prince's
expense!




CHAPTER XVII.

ADVENTURES AMONG THE HARTZ.


On taking leave of Carl at the gate over the Göttingen road, I felt
tempted to bestow a malediction upon traveling, from its merciless
breaking of all links, as soon as formed. It was painful to think we
should meet no more. The tears started into his eyes, and feeling a mist
gathering over mine, I gave his hand a parting pressure, turned my back
upon Cassel and started up the long mountain, at a desperate rate. On
the summit I passed out of Hesse into Hanover, and began to descend the
remaining six miles. The road went down by many windings, but I
shortened the way considerably by a foot-path through a mossy old
forest. The hills bordering the Weser are covered with wood, through
which I saw the little red-roofed city of Münden, at the bottom. I
stopped there for the night, and next morning walked around the place.
It is one of the old German cities that have not yet felt the effect of
the changing spirit of the age. It is still walled, though the towers
are falling to ruin. The streets are narrow, crooked, and full of ugly
old houses, and to stand in the little square before the public
buildings, one would think himself born in the sixteenth century. Just
below the city the Werra and Fulda unito and form the Weser. The
triangular point has been made into a public walk, and the little
steamboat was lying at anchor near, waiting to start for Bremen.

In the afternoon I got into the omnibus for Göttingen. The ride over the
wild, dreary, monotonous hills was not at all interesting. There were
two other passengers inside, one of whom, a grave, elderly man, took a
great interest in America, but the conversation was principally on his
side, for I had been taken with a fever in Münden. I lay crouched up in
the corner of the vehicle, trying to keep off the chills which
constantly came over me, and wishing only for Göttingen, that I might
obtain medicine and a bed. We reached it at last, and I got out with my
knapsack and walked wearily through half a dozen streets till I saw an
inn. But on entering, I found it so dark and dirty and unfriendly, that
I immediately went out again and hired the first pleasant looking boy I
met, to take me to a good hotel. He conducted me to the first one in the
city. I felt a trepidation of pocket, but my throbbing head plead more
powerfully, so I ordered a comfortable room and a physician. The host,
Herr Wilhelm, sent for Professor Trefurt, of the University, who told me
I had over-exerted myself in walking. He made a second call the next
day, when, as he was retiring, I inquired the amount of his fee. He
begged to be excused and politely bowed himself out. I inquired the
meaning of this of Herr Wilhelm, who said it was customary for
travellers to leave what they chose for the physician, as there was no
regular fee. He added, moreover, that twenty groschen, or about sixty
cents, was sufficient for the two visits!

I stayed in Göttingen two dull, dreary, miserable days, without getting
much better. I took but one short walk through the city, in which I saw
the outsides of a few old churches and got a hard fall on the pavement.
Thinking that the _cause_ of my illness might perhaps become its _cure_,
I resolved to go on rather than remain in the melancholy--in spite of
its black-eyed maidens, melancholy--Göttingen. On the afternoon of the
second day, I took the post to Nordheim, about twelve miles distant. The
Göttingen valley, down which we drove, is green and beautiful, and the
trees seem to have come out all at once. we were not within sight of the
Hartz, but the mountains along the Weser were visible on the left. The
roads were extremely muddy from the late rains, so that I proceeded but
slowly.

A blue range along the horizon told me of the Hartz, as I passed;
although there were some fine side-glimpses through the hills, I did not
see much of them till I reached Osterode, about twelve miles further.
Here the country begins to assume a different aspect. The city lies in a
narrow valley, and as the road goes down a steep hill towards it, one
sees on each side many quarries of gypsum, and in front the gloomy pine
mountains are piled one above another in real Alpine style. But alas!
the city, though it looks exceedingly romantic from above, is one of
the dirtiest I ever saw. I stopped at Herzberg, six miles farther, for
the night. The scenery was very striking; and its effect was much
heightened by a sky full of black clouds, which sent down a hail-storm
as they passed over. The hills are covered with pine, fir and larch. The
latter tree, in its first foliage, is most delicate and beautiful. Every
bough is like a long ostrich plume, and when one of them stands among
the dark pines, it seems so light and airy that the wind might carry it
away. Just opposite Herzberg, the Hartz stands in its gloomy and
mysterious grandeur, and I went to sleep with the pleasant thought that
an hour's walk on the morrow would shut me up in its deep recesses.

The next morning I entered them. The road led up a narrow mountain
valley, down which a stream was rushing--on all sides were magnificent
forests of pine. It was glorious to look down their long aisles, dim and
silent, with a floor of thick green moss. There was just room enough for
the road and the wild stream which wound its way zigzag between the
hills, affording the most beautiful mountain-view along the whole route.
As I ascended, the mountains became rougher and wilder, and in the shady
hollows were still drifts of snow. Enjoying every thing very much, I
walked on without taking notice of the road, and on reaching a wild,
rocky chasm called the "Schlucht," was obliged to turn aside and take a
footpath over a high mountain to Andreasberg, a town built on a summit
two thousand feet above the sea. It is inhabited almost entirely by the
workmen in the mines.

The way from Andreasberg to the Brocken leads along the Rehberger
Graben, which carry water about six miles for the oreworks. After going
through a thick pine wood, I came out on the mountain-side, where rough
crags overhung the way above, and through the tops of the trees I had
glimpses into the gorge below. It was scenery of the wildest character.
Directly opposite rose a mountain wall, dark and stern through the
gloomy sky; far below the little stream of the Oder foamed over the
rocks with a continual roar, and one or two white cloud-wreaths were
curling up from the forests.

I followed the water-ditch around every projection of the mountain,
still ascending higher amid the same wild scenery, till at length I
reached the Oderteich, a great dam, in a kind of valley formed by some
mountain peaks on the side of the Brocken. It has a breastwork of
granite, very firm, and furnishes a continual supply of water for the
works. It began to rain soon, and I took a foot-path which went winding
up through the pine wood. The storm still increased, till everything was
cloud and rain, so I was obliged to stop about five o'clock at
Oderbruch, a toll-house and tavern on the side of the Brocken, on the
boundary between Brunswick and Hanover--the second highest inhabited
house in the Hartz. The Brocken was invisible through the storm and the
weather forboded a difficult ascent. The night was cold, but by a warm
fire I let the winds howl and the rain beat. When I awoke the next
morning, we were in clouds. They were thick on every side, hiding what
little view there was through the openings of the forest. After
breakfast, however, they were somewhat thinner, and I concluded to start
for the Brocken. It is not the usual way for travellers who ascend,
being not only a bad road but difficult to find, as I soon discovered.
The clouds gathered around again after I set out, and I was obliged to
walk in a storm of mingled rain and snow. The snow lay several feet deep
in the forests, and the path was, in many places, quite drifted over.
The white cloud-masses were whirled past by the wind, continually
enveloping me and shutting out every view. During the winter the path
had become, in ninny places, the bed of a mountain torrent, so that I
was obliged sometimes to wade kneedeep in snow, and sometimes to walk
over the wet, spongy moss, crawling under the long, dripping branches of
the stunted pines. After a long time of such dreary travelling, I came
to two rocks called the Stag Horns, standing on a little peak. The
storm, now all snow, blew more violently than ever, and the path became
lost under the deep drifts.

Comforting myself with the assurance that if I could not find it, I
could at least make my way back, I began searching, and after some time,
came upon it again. Here the forest ceased; the way led on large stones
over a marshy ascending plain, but what was above, or on either side, I
could not see. It was solitude of the most awful kind. There was nothing
but the storm, which had already wet me through, and the bleak gray
waste of rocks. It grew sleeper and steeper; I could barely trace the
path by the rocks which were worn, and the snow threatened soon to cover
these. Added to this, although the walking and fresh mountain air had
removed my illness, I was still weak from the effects of it, and the
consequences of a much longer exposure to the storm were greatly to be
feared. I was wondering if the wind increased at the same rate, how much
longer it would be before I should be carried off, when suddenly
something loomed up above me through the storm. A few steps more and I
stood beside the Brocken House, on the very summit of the mountain! The
mariner, who has been floating for days on a wreck at sea, could
scarcely be more rejoiced at a friendly sail, than I was on entering the
low building. Two large Alpine dogs in the passage, as I walked in,
dripping with wet, gave notice to the inmates, and I was soon ushered
into a warm room, where I changed my soaked garments for dry ones, and
sat down by the fire with feelings of comfort not easily imagined. The
old landlord was quite surprised, on hearing the path by which I came,
that I found the way at all. The summit was wrapped in the thickest
cloud, and he gave me no hope for several hours of any prospect at all,
so I sat down and looked over the Stranger's Album.

I saw but two names from the United States--B.F. Atkins, of Boston, and
C.A. Hay, from York, Pa. There were a great many long-winded German
poems--among them, one by Schelling, the philosopher. Some of them spoke
of having seen the "Spectre of the Brocken." I inquired of the landlord
about the phenomenon; he says in winter it is frequently seen, in summer
more seldom. The cause is very simple. It is always seen at sunrise,
when the eastern side of the Brocken is free from clouds, and at the
same time, the mist rises from the valley on the opposite side. The
shadow of every thing on the Brocken is then thrown in grand proportions
upon the mist, and is seen surrounded with a luminous halo. It is
somewhat singular that such a spectacle can be seen upon the Brocken
alone, but this is probably accounted for by the formation of the
mountain, which collects the mist at just such a distance from the
summit as to render the shadow visible.

Soon after dinner the storm subsided and the clouds separated a little.
I could see down through the rifts on the plains of Brunswick, and
sometimes, when they opened a little more, the mountains below us to the
east and the adjoining plains, as far as Magdeburg. It was like looking
on the earth from another planet, or from some point in the air which
had no connection, with it; our station was completely surrounded by
clouds, rolling in great masses around us, now and then giving glimpses
through their openings of the blue plains, dotted with cities and
villages, far below. At one time when they were tolerably well
separated, I ascended the tower, fifty feet high, standing near the
Brocken House. The view on three sides was quite clear, and I can easily
imagine what a magnificent prospect it must be in fine weather. The
Brocken is only about four thousand feet high, nearly the same as the
loftiest peak of the Catskill, but being the highest mountain in
Northern Germany, it commands a more extensive prospect. Imagine a
circle described with a radius of a hundred miles, comprising thirty
cities, two or three hundred villages and one whole mountain district!
We could see Brunswick and Magdeburg, and beyond them the great plain
which extends to the North Sea in one direction and to Berlin in the
other, while directly below us lay the dark mountains of the Hartz, with
little villages in their sequestered valleys. It was but a few moments I
could look on this scene--in an instant the clouds swept together again
and completely hid it. In accordance with a custom of the mountain, one
of the girls made me a "Brocken nosegay," of heather, lichens and moss.
I gave her a few pfennings and stowed it away carefully in a corner of
my knapsack.

I now began descending the east side, by a good road over fields of bare
rock and through large forests of pine. Two or three bare brown peaks
rose opposite with an air of the wildest sublimity, and in many places
through the forest towered lofty crags. This is the way by which Goethe
brings Faust up the Brocken, and the scenery is graphically described in
that part of the poem. At the foot of the mountain is the little village
of Schiercke, the highest in the Hartz. Here I took a narrow path
through the woods, and after following a tediously long road over the
hills, reached Elbingerode, where I spent the night, and left the next
morning for Blankenburg. I happened to take the wrong road, however, and
went through Rubeland, a little village in the valley of the Bode. There
are many iron works here, and two celebrated caves, called "Baumann's
Höhle," and "Biel's Höhle." I kept on through the gray, rocky hills to
Huttenrode, where I inquired the way to the Rosstrappe, but was directed
wrong, and after walking nearly two hours in a heavy rain, arrived at
Ludwigshütte, on the Bode, in one of the wildest and loneliest corners
of the Hartz. I dried my wet clothes at a little inn, ate a dinner of
bread and milk, and learning that I was just as far from the Rosstrappe
as ever, and that the way was impossible to find alone, I hunted up a
guide.

We went over the mountains through a fine old forest, for about two
hours, and came out on the brow of a hill near the end of the Hartz,
with a beautiful view of the country below and around. Passing the
little inn, the path led through thick bushes along the summit, over a
narrow ledge of rocks that seemed to stretch out into the air, for on
either side the foot of the precipice vanished in the depth below.

Arrived at last at the end, I looked around me. What a spectacle! I was
standing on the end of a line of precipice which ran out from the
mountain like a wall for several hundred feet--the hills around rising
up perpendicularly from the gorge below, where the Bode pressed into a
narrow channel foamed its way through. Sharp masses of gray rock rose up
in many places from the main body like pillars, with trees clinging to
the clefts, and although the defile was near seven hundred feet deep,
the summits, in one place, were very near to one another. Near the point
at which I stood, which was secured by a railing, was an impression in
the rock like the hoof of a giant horse, from which the place takes its
name. It is very distinct and perfect, and nearly two feet in length.

I went back to the little inn and sat down to rest and chat awhile with
the talkative landlady. Notwithstanding her horrible Prussian dialect, I
was much amused with the budget of wonders, which she keeps for the
information of travelers. Among other things, she related to me the
legend of the Rosstrappe, which I give in her own words: "A great many
hundred years ago, when there were plenty of giants through the world,
there was a certain beautiful princess, who was very much loved by one
of them. Now, although the parents of this princess were afraid of the
giant, and wanted her to marry him, she herself hated him, because she
was in love with a brave knight. But, you see, the brave knight could do
nothing against the great giant, and so a day was appointed for the
wedding of the princess. When they were married, the giant had a great
feast and he and all his servants got drunk. So the princess mounted his
black horse and rode away over the mountains, till she reached this
valley. She stood on that square rock which you see there opposite to
us, and when she saw her knight on this side, where we are, she danced
for joy, and the rock is called the _Tanzplatz_, to this very day. But
when the giant found she had gone, he followed her as fast as he might;
then a holy bishop, who saw the princess, blessed the feet of her horse,
and she jumped on it across to this side, where his fore feet made two
marks in the rock, though there is only one left now. You should not
laugh at this, for if there were giants then, there must have been very
big horses too, as one can see from the hoofmark, and the valley was
narrower then than it is now. My dear man, who is very old now, (you see
him through the bushes, there, digging,) says it was so when he was a
child, and that the old people living then, told him there were once
four just such hoof-tracks, on the _Tanzplatz_, where the horse stood
before he jumped over. And we cannot doubt the words of the good old
people, for there were many strange things then, we all know, which the
dear Lord does not let happen now. But I must tell you, lieber Herr,
that the giant tried to jump after her and fell away down into the
valley, where they say he lives yet in the shape of a big black dog,
guarding the crown of the princess, which fell off as she was going
over. But this part of the story is perhaps not true, as nobody, that I
ever heard of, has seen either the black dog or the crown!"

After listening to similar gossip for a while, I descended the
mountain-side, a short distance to the Bülowshöhe. This is a rocky shaft
that shoots, upward from the mountain, having from its top a glorious
view through the door which the Bode makes in passing out of the Hartz.
I could see at a great distance the towers of Magdeburg, and further,
the vast plain stretching away like a sea towards Berlin. From Thale,
the village below, where the air was warmer than in the Hartz and the
fruit-trees already in blossom, it was four hours' walk to Halberstadt,
by a most tiresome road over long ranges of hills, all ploughed and
planted, and extending as far as the eye could reach, without a single
fence or hedge. It is pleasant to look over scenes where nature is so
free and unshackled; but the _people_, alas! wear the fetters. The
setting sun, which lighted up the old Brocken and his snowy top, showed
me also Halberstadt, the end of my Hartz journey; but its deceitful
towers fled as I approached, and I was half dead with fatigue on
arriving there.

The ghostly, dark and echoing castle of an inn (the Black Eagle) where I
stopped, was enough to inspire a lonely traveller, like myself, with
unpleasant fancies. It looked heavy and massive enough to have been a
stout baron's stronghold in some former century; the taciturn landlord
and his wife, who, with a solemn servant girl, were the only tenants,
had grown into perfect keeping with its gloomy character. When I groped
my way under the heavy, arched portal into the guests' room--a large,
lofty, cheerless hall--all was dark, and I could barely perceive, by the
little light which came through two deep-set windows, the inmates of the
house, sitting on opposite sides of the room. After some delay, the
hostess brought a light. I entreated her to bring me something
_instantly_ for supper, and in half an hour she placed a mixture on the
table, the like of which I never wish to taste again. She called it
_beer-soup_! I found, on examination, it was _beer_, boiled with meat,
and seasoned strongly with pepper and salt! My hunger disappeared, and
pleading fatigue as an excuse for want of appetite, I left the table.
When I was ready to retire, the landlady, who had been sitting silently
in a dark corner, called the solemn servant girl, who took up a dim
lamp, and bade me follow her to the "sleeping chamber." Taking up my
knapsack and staff, I stumbled down the steps into the arched gateway;
before me was a long, damp, deserted court-yard, across which the girl
took her way. I followed her with some astonishment, imagining where the
sleeping chamber could be, when she stopped at a small, one-story
building, standing alone in the yard. Opening the door with a rusty key,
she led me into a bare room, a few feet square, opening into another,
equally bare, with the exception of a rough bed. "Certainly," said I, "I
am not to sleep here!" "Yes," she answered, "this is the sleeping
chamber," at the same time setting down the light and disappearing. I
examined the place--it smelt mouldy, and the walls were cold and damp;
there had been a window at the head of the bed, but it was walled up,
and that at the foot was also closed to within a few inches of the top.
The bed was course and dirty; and on turning down the ragged covers, I
saw with horror, a dark brown stain near the pillow, like that of blood!
For a moment I hesitated whether to steal out of the inn, and seek
another lodging, late as it was; at last, overcoming my fears, I threw
my clothes into a heap, and lay down, placing my heavy staff at the head
of the bed. Persons passed up and down the courtyard several times, the
light of their lamps streaming through the narrow aperture up against
the ceiling, and I distinctly heard voices, which seemed to be near the
door. Twice did I sit up in bed, breathless, with my hand on the cane,
in the most intense anxiety; but fatigue finally overcame suspicion, and
I sank into a deep sleep, from which I was gladly awakened by daylight.
In reality, there may have been no cause for my fears--I may have
wronged the lonely innkeepers by them; but certainly no place or
circumstances ever seemed to me more appropriate to a deed of robbery or
crime. I left immediately, and when a turn in the street hid the
ill-omened front of the inn, I began to breathe with my usual freedom.




CHAPTER XVIII.

NOTES IN LEIPSIC AND DRESDEN.


_Leipsic, May 8._--I have now been nearly two days in this wide-famed
city, and the more I see of it the better I like it. It is a pleasant,
friendly town, old enough to be interesting, and new enough to be
comfortable. There in much active business life, through which it is
fast increasing in size and beauty. Its publishing establishments are
the largest in the world, and its annual fairs attended by people from
all parts of Europe. This is much for a city to accomplish, situated
alone in the middle of a great plain, with no natural charms of scenery
or treasures of art to attract strangers. The energy and enterprise of
its merchants have accomplished all this, and it now stands, in
importance, among the first cities of Europe.

The bad weather obliged me to take the railroad at Halberstadt, to keep
the appointment with my friend, in this city. I left at six for
Magdeburg, and after two hours' ride over a dull, tiresome plain, rode
along under the mounds and fortifications by the side of the Elbe, and
entered the old town. It was very cold, and the streets were muddy, so I
contented myself with looking at the Broadway, (_der breite Weg_,) the
Cathedral and one or two curious old churches, and in walking along the
parapet leading to the fortress, which has a view of the winding Elbe.
The Citadel was interesting from having been the prison in which Baron
Trenck was confined, whose narrative I read years ago, when quite a
child.

We were soon on the road to Leipsic. The way was over one great,
uninterrupted plain--a more monotonous country, even, than Belgium. Two
of the passengers in the car with me were much annoyed at being taken by
the railway agents for Poles. Their movements were strictly watched by
the gens d'arme at every station we passed, and they were not even
allowed to sit together! At Kothen a branch track went off to Berlin. We
passed by Halle without being able to see anything of it or its
University, and arrived here in four hours after leaving Magdeburg.

On my first walk around the city, yesterday morning, I passed the
_Augustus Platz_--a broad green lawn, on which front the University and
several other public buildings. A chain of beautiful promenades
encircles the city, on the site of its old fortifications. Following
their course through walks shaded by large trees and bordered with
flowering shrubs, I passed a small but chaste monument to Sebastian
Bach, the composer, which was erected almost entirely at the private
cost of Mendelssohn, and stands opposite the building in which Bach once
directed the choirs. As I was standing beside it, a glorious choral,
swelled by a hundred voices, came through the open windows, like a
tribute to the genius of the great master.

Having found my friend we went together to the _Stern Warte_, or
Observatory, which gives a fine view of the country around the city, and
in particular the battle field. The Castellan who is stationed there, is
well acquainted with the localities, and pointed out the position of the
hostile armies. It was one of the most bloody and hard-fought battles
which history records. The army of Napoleon stretched like a semicircle
around the southern and eastern sides of the city, and the plain beyond
was occupied by the allies, whose forces met together here.
Schwarzenberg, with his Austrians, came from Dresden; Blucher, from
Halle, with the Emperor Alexander. Their forces amounted to three
hundred thousand, while those of Napoleon ranked at one hundred and
ninety-two thousand men. It must have been a terrific scene. Four days
raged the battle, and the meeting of half a million of men in deadly
conflict was accompanied by the thunder of sixteen hundred cannon. The
small rivers which flow through Leipsic were swollen with blood, and the
vast plain was strewed with more than fifty thousand dead. It is
difficult to conceive of such slaughter, while looking at the quiet and
tranquil landscape below. It seemed more like a legend of past ages,
when ignorance and passion led men to murder and destroy, than an event
which the last half century witnessed. For the sake of humanity it is
to be hoped that the world will never see such another.

There are some lovely walks around Leipsic. We went yesterday afternoon
with a few friends to the Rosenthal, a beautiful meadow, bordered by
forests of the German oak, very few of whose Druid trunks have been left
standing. There are Swiss cottages embowered in the foliage, where every
afternoon the social citizens assemble to drink their coffee enjoy a few
hours' escape from the noisy and dusty streets, One can walk for miles
along these lovely paths by the side of the velvet meadows, or the banks
of some shaded stream. We visited the little village of Golis, a short
distance off, where, in the second story of a little white house, hangs
the sign: "Schiller's Room." Some of the Leipsic literati have built a
stone arch over the entrance, with the inscription above: "Here dwelt
Schiller in 1795, and wrote his Hymn to Joy." Every where through
Germany the remembrances of Schiller are sacred. In every city where he
lived, they show his dwelling. They know and reverence the mighty spirit
who has been among them. The little room where he conceived that sublime
poem is hallowed as if by the presence of unseen spirits.

I was anxious to see the spot where Poniatowsky fell. We returned over
the plain to the city and passed in at the gate by which the Cossacks
entered, pursuing the flying French. Crossing the lower part, we came to
the little river Elster, in whose waves the gallant prince sank. The
stone bridge by which we crossed was blown up by the French, to cut off
pursuit. Napoleon had given orders that it should not be blown up till
the Poles had all passed over, as the river, though narrow, is quite
deep, and the banks are steep. Nevertheless, his officers did not wait,
and the Poles, thus exposed to the fire of the enemy, were obliged to
plunge into the stream to join the French army, which had begun the
retreat towards Frankfort. Poniatowsky, severely wounded, made his way
through a garden near and escaped on horseback into the water. He became
entangled among the fugitives and sank. By walking a little distance
along the road towards Frankfort, we could see the spot where his body
was taken out of the river; it is now marked by a square stone, covered
with the names of his countrymen who have visited it. We returned
through the narrow arched way, by which Napoleon fled when the battle
was lost.

Another interesting place in Leipsic is Auerback's Cellar, which, it is
said, contains an old manuscript history of Faust, from which Goethe
derived the first idea of his poem. He used to frequent this cellar, and
one of his scenes in "Faust" is laid in it. We looked down the arched
passage; not wishing to purchase any wine, we could find no pretence for
entering. The streets are full of book stores and one half the business
of the inhabitants appears to consist in printing, paper-making and
binding. The publishers have a handsome Exchange of their own, and
during the Fairs, the amount of business transacted is enormous. The
establishment of Brockhaus is contained in an immense building,
adjoining which stands his dwelling, in the midst of magnificent
gardens. That of Tauchnitz is not less celebrated. His edition of the
classics, in particular, are the best that have ever been made; and he
has lately commenced publishing a number of English works, in a cheap
form. Otto Wigand, who has also a large establishment, has begun to
issue translations of American works. He has already published Prescott
and Bancroft, and I believe intends giving out shortly, translations
from some of our poets and novelists. I became acquainted at the Museum,
with a young German author who had been some time in America, and was
well versed in our literature. He is now engaged in translating American
works, one of which--Hoffman's "Wild Scenes of the Forest and
Prairie"--will soon appear. In no place in Germany have I found more
knowledge of our country, her men and her institutions, than in Leipsic,
and as yet I have seen few that would be preferable as a place of
residence. Its attractions lie not in its scenery, but in the social and
intellectual character of its inhabitants.

_May 11._--At last in this "Florence of the Elbe," as the Saxons have
christened it. Exclusive of its glorious galleries of art, which are
scarcely surpassed by any in Europe, Dresden charms one by the natural
beauty of its environs. It stands in a curve of the Elbe, in the midst
of green meadows, gardens and fine old woods, with the hills of Saxony
sweeping around like an amphitheatre, and the craggy peaks of the
Highlands looking at it from afar. The domes and spires at a distance
give it a rich Italian look, which is heightened by the white villas,
embowered in trees, gleaming on the hills around. In the streets there
is no bustle of business--nothing of the din and confusion of traffic
which mark most cities; it seems like a place for study and quiet
enjoyment.

The railroad brought us in three hours from Leipsic, over the eighty
miles of plain that intervene. We came from the station through the
_Neustadt_, passing the Japanese Palace and the equestrian statue of
Augustus the Strong, The magnificent bridge over the Elbe was so much
injured by the late inundation as to be impassable; we worn obliged to
go some distance up the river bank and cross on a bridge of boats. Next
morning my first search was for the picture gallery. We set off at
random, and after passing the Church of Our Lady, with its lofty dome of
solid stone, which withstood the heaviest bombs during the war with
Frederick the Great, came to an open square, one side of which was
occupied by an old, brown, red-roofed building, which I at once
recognized, from pictures, as the object of our search.

I have just taken a last look at the gallery this morning, and left it
with real regret; for, during the two visits, Raphael's heavenly picture
of the Madonna and child had so grown into my love and admiration, that
it was painful to think I should never see it again. There are many more
which clung so strongly to my imagination, gratifying in the highest
degree the love for the Beautiful, that I left them with sadness, and
the thought that I would now only have the memory. I can see the
inspired eye and god-like brow of the Jesus-child, as if I were still
standing before the picture, and the sweet, holy countenance of the
Madonna still looks upon me. Yet, though this picture is a miracle of
art, the first glance filled me with disappointment. It has somewhat
faded, during the three hundred years that have rolled away since the
hand of Raphael worked on the canvass, and the glass with which it is
covered for better preservation, injures the effect. After I had gazed
on it awhile, every thought of this vanished. The figure of the virgin
seemed to soar in the air, and it was difficult to think the clouds were
not in motion. An aerial lightness clothes her form, and it is
perfectly natural for such a figure to stand among the clouds. Two
divine cherubs look up from below, and in her arms sits the sacred
child. Those two faces beam from the picture like those of angels. The
wild, prophetic eye and lofty brow of the young Jesus chains one like a
spell. There is something more than mortal in its expression--something
in the infant face which indicates a power mightier than the proudest
manhood. There is no glory around the head; but the spirit which shines
from those features, marks his divinity. In the sweet face of the mother
there speaks a sorrowful foreboding mixed with its tenderness, as if she
knew the world into which the Saviour was born, and foresaw the path in
which he was to tread. It is a picture which one can scarce look upon
without tears.

There are in the same room six pictures by Correggio, which are said to
be among his best works; one of them his celebrated Magdalen. There is
also Correggio's "Holy Night," or the virgin with the shepherds in the
manger, in which all the light comes from the body of the child. The
surprise of the shepherds is most beautifully expressed. In one of the
halls there is a picture by Van der Werff, in which the touching story
of Hagar is told more feelingly than words could do it. The young
Ishmael is represented full of grief at parting with Isaac, who, in
childish unconsciousness of what has taken place, draws in sport the
corner of his mother's mantle around him, and smiles at the tears of his
lost playmate. Nothing can come nearer real flesh and blood than the two
portraits of Raphael Mengs, painted by himself when quite young. You
almost think the artist has in sport crept behind the frame, and wishes
to make you believe he is a picture. It would be impossible to speak of
half the gems of art contained in this unrivalled collection. There are
twelve large halls, containing in all nearly two thousand pictures.

The plain, south of Dresden, was the scene of the hard-fought battle
between Napoleon and the allied armies, in 1813. On the heights above
the little village of Räcknitz, Moreau was shot on the second day of the
battle. We took a foot-path through the meadows, shaded by cherry trees
in bloom, and reached the spot after an hour's walk. The monument is
simple--a square block of granite, surmounted by a helmet and sword,
with the inscription: "_The hero Moreau fell here by the side of
Alexander, August 17th, 1813_." I gathered, as a memorial, a few leaves
of the oak which shades it.

By applying an hour before the appointed time, we obtained admission to
the Royal Library. It contains three hundred thousand volumes--among
them the most complete collection of historical works in existence. Each
hall is devoted to a history of a separate country, and one large room
is filled with that of Saxony alone. There is a large number of rare and
curious manuscripts, among which are old Greek works of the seventh and
eighth centuries; a Koran which once belonged to the Sultan Bajazet; the
handwriting of Luther and Melancthon; a manuscript volume with pen and
ink sketches, by Albert Durer, and the earliest works after the
invention of printing. Among these latter was a book published by Faust
and Schaeffer, at Mayence, in 1457. There were also Mexican manuscripts,
written on the Aloe leaf, and many illuminated monkish volumes of the
middle ages.

We were fortunate in seeing the _Grüne Gewölbe_, or Green Gallery, a
collection of jewels and costly articles, unsurpassed in Europe. The
entrance is only granted to six persons at a time, who pay a fee of two
thalers. The customary way is to employ a _Lohnbedienter_, who goes
around from one hotel to another, till he has collected the number, when
he brings them together and conducts them to the person in the palace,
who has charge of the treasures. As our visit happened to be during the
Pentecost holidays, when every body in Dresden goes to the mountains,
there was some difficulty in effecting this, but after two mornings
spent in hunting up curious travelers, the servant finally conducted us
in triumph to the palace. The first hall into which we were ushered,
contained works in bronze. They were all small, and chosen with regard
to their artistical value. Some by John of Bologna were exceedingly
fine, as was also a group in iron, _cut_ out of a single block; perhaps
the only successful attempt in this branch. The next room contained
statues, and vases covered with reliefs, in ivory. The most remarkable
work was the fall of Lucifer and his angels, containing ninety-two
figures in all, carved out of a single piece of ivory sixteen inches
high! It was the work of an Italian monk, and cost him many years of
hard labor. There were two tables of mosaic-work, that would not be out
of place in the fabled halls of the eastern genii, so much did they
exceed my former ideas of human skill. The tops were of jasper, and each
had a border of fruit and flowers, in which every color was represented
by some precious stone, all with the utmost delicacy and truth to
nature! It is impossible to conceive the splendid effect it produced.
Besides some fine pictures on gold by Raphael Mengs, there was a
Madonna, the largest specimen of enamel painting in existence.

However costly the contents of these halls, they were only an
introduction to those which followed. Each one exceeded the other in
splendor and costliness. The walls were covered to the ceiling with rows
of goblets, vases, &c., of polished jasper, agate and lapiz lazuli.
Splendid mosaic tables stood around, with caskets of the most exquisite
silver and gold work upon them, and vessels of solid silver, some of
them weighing six hundred pounds were placed at the foot of the columns.
We were shown two goblets, each prized at six thousand thalers, made of
gold and precious stones; also the great pearl called the Spanish Dwarf,
nearly as large as a pullet's egg; globes and vases cut entirely out of
the mountain crystal; magnificent Nuremberg watches and clocks, and a
great number of figures, made ingeniously of rough pearls and diamonds.
The officer showed us a hen's egg of silver. There was apparently
nothing remarkable about it, but by unscrewing, it came apart, and
disclosed the yelk of gold. This again opened and a golden chicken was
seen; by touching a spring, a little diamond crown came from the inside,
and the crown being again taken apart, out dropped a valuable diamond
ring! The seventh hall contains the coronation robes of Augustus II., of
Poland, and many costly specimens of carving in wood, A cherry stone is
shown in a glass case, which has one hundred and twenty-five faces, all
perfectly finished, carved upon it! The next room we entered sent back a
glare of splendor that perfectly dazzled us. It was all gold, diamond,
ruby and sapphire! Every case sent out such a glow and glitter that it
seemed like a cage of imprisoned lightnings. Wherever the eye turned it
was met by a blaze of broken rainbows. They were there by hundreds, and
every gem was a fortune. Whole cases of swords, with hilts and scabbards
of solid gold, studded with gems; the great two-handed coronation sword
of the German emperors; daggers covered with brilliants and rubies;
diamond buttons, chains and orders, necklaces and bracelets of pearl and
emerald, and the order of the Golden Fleece made in gems of every kind.
We were also shown the largest known onyx, nearly seven inches long and
four inches broad! One of the most remarkable works is the throne and
court of Aurungzebe, the Indian king, by Dinglinger, a celebrated
goldsmith of the last century. It contains one hundred and thirty-two
figures, all of enamelled gold, and each one most perfectly and
elaborately finished. It was purchased by Prince Augustus for
fifty-eight thousand thalers,[**] which was not a high sum, considering
that the making of it occupied Dinglinger and thirteen workmen for seven
years!

It is almost impossible to estimate the value of the treasures these
halls contain. That of the gold and jewels alone must bo many millions
of dollars, and the amount of labor expended on these toys of royalty is
incredible. As monuments of patient and untiring toil, they are
interesting: but it is sad to think how much labor and skill and energy
have been wasted, in producing things which are useless to the world,
and only of secondary importance as works of art. Perhaps, however, if
men could be diverted by such play-things from more dangerous games, it
would be all the better.

[Footnote **: A Prussian or Saxon thaler is about 70 cts.]




CHAPTER XIX.

RAMBLES IN THE SAXON SWITZERLAND.


After four days' sojourn in Dresden we shouldered our knapsacks, not to
be laid down again till we reached Prague. We were elated with the
prospect of getting among the hills again, and we heeded not the
frequent showers which had dampened the enjoyment of the Pentecost
holidays, to the good citizens of Dresden, and might spoil our own. So
we trudged gaily along the road to Pillnitz and waved an adieu to the
domes behind us as the forest shut them out from view. After two hours'
walk the road led down to the Elbe, where we crossed in a ferry-boat to
Pillnitz, the seat of a handsome palace and gardens, belonging to the
King of Saxony. He happened to be there at the time, on an afternoon
excursion from Dresden; as we had seen him before, in the latter place,
we passed directly on, only pausing to admire the flower-beds in the
palace court. The King is a tall, benevolent looking man, and is
apparently much liked by his people. As far as I have yet seen, Saxony
is a prosperous and happy country. The people are noted all over Germany
for their honest, social character, which is written on their cheerful,
open countenances. On our entrance into the Saxon Switzerland, at
Pillnitz, we were delighted with the neatness and home-like appearance
of every thing. Every body greeted us; if we asked for information, they
gave it cheerfully. The villages were all pleasant and clean and the
meadows fresh and blooming. I felt half tempted to say, in the words of
an old ballad, which I believe Longfellow has translated:

    "The fairest kingdom on this earth,
    It is the Saxon land!"

Going along the left bank of the Elbe, we passed over meadows purple
with the tri-colored violet, which we have at home in gardens, and every
little bank was bright with cowslips. At length the path led down into a
cleft or ravine filled with trees, whose tops were on a level with the
country around. This is a peculiar feature of Saxon scenery. The country
contains many of these clefts, some of which are several hundred feet
deep, having walls of perpendicular rock, in whose crevices the mountain
pine roots itself and grows to a tolerable height without any apparent
soil to keep it alive. We descended by a foot-path into this ravine,
called the Liebethaler Grund. It is wider than many of the others,
having room enough for a considerable stream and several mills. The
sides are of sandstone rock, quite perpendicular. As we proceeded, it
grew narrower and deeper, while the trees covering its sides and edges
nearly shut out the sky. An hour's walk brought us to the end, where we
ascended gradually to the upper level again.

After passing the night at the little village of Uttewalde, a short
distance further, we set out early in the morning for the Bastei, a
lofty precipice on the Elbe. The way led us directly through the
Uttewalder Grund, the most remarkable of all these chasms. We went down
by steps into its depths, which in the early morning were very cold.
Water dripped from the rocks, which but a few feet apart, rose far above
us, and a little rill made its way along the bottom, into which the sun
has never shone. Heavy masses of rock, which had tumbled down from the
sides lay in the way, and tall pine trees sprung from every cleft. In
one place the defile is only four feet wide, and a large mass of rock,
fallen from above, has lodged near the bottom, making an arch across,
under which the traveller has to creep. After going under two or three
arches of this kind, the defile widened and an arrow cut upon a rock
directed us to a side path, which branched off from this into a
mountain. Here the stone masses immediately assumed another form. They
projected out like shelves sometimes as much as twenty feet from the
straight side, and hung over the way, looking as if they might break off
every moment. I felt glad when we had passed under them. Then as we
ascended higher, we saw pillars of rock separated entirely from the side
and rising a hundred feet in height, with trees growing on their
summits. They stood there gray and limeworn, like the ruins of a Titan
temple.

The path finally led us out into the forest and through the clustering
pine trees, to the summit of the Bastei. An inn has been erected in the
woods and an iron balustrade placed around the rock. Protected by this,
we advanced to the end of the precipice and looked down to the swift
Elbe, more than seven hundred feet below! Opposite through the blue
mists of morning, rose Königstein, crowned with an impregnable fortress,
and the crags of Lilienstein, with a fine forest around their base,
frowned from the left bank. On both sides were horrible precipices of
gray rock, with rugged trees hanging from the crevices. A hill rising up
from one side of the Bastei, terminates suddenly a short distance from
it, in on abrupt precipice. In the intervening space stand three or four
of those rock-columns, several hundred feet high, with their tops nearly
on a level with the Bastei. A wooden bridge has been made across from
one to the other, over which the traveller passes, looking on the trees
and rocks far below him, to the mountain, where a steep zigzag path
takes him to the Elbe below.

We crossed the Elbe for the fourth time at the foot of the Bastei, and
walked along its right bank towards Königstein. The injury caused by the
inundation was everywhere apparent. The receding flood had left a
deposit of sand, in many places several feet deep on the rich meadows,
so that the labor of years will be requisite to remove it and restore
the land to an arable condition. Even the farm-houses on the hillside,
some distance from the river, had been reached, and the long grass hung
in the highest branches of the fruit trees. The people wore at work
trying to repair their injuries, but it will fall heavily upon the
poorer classes.

The mountain of Königstein is twelve hundred feet high. A precipice,
varying from one to three hundred feet in height, runs entirely around
the summit, which is flat, and a mile and a half in circumference. This
has been turned into a fortress, whose natural advantages make it
entirely impregnable. During the Thirty Years' War and the late war with
Napoleon, it was the only place in Saxony unoccupied by the enemy. Hence
is it used as a depository for the archives and royal treasures, in
times of danger. By giving up our passports at the door, we received
permission to enter; the officer called a guide to take us around the
battlements. There is quite a little village on the summit, with
gardens, fields, and a wood of considerable size. The only entrance is
by a road cut through the rock, which is strongly guarded. A well seven
hundred feet deep supplies the fortress with water, and there are
storehouses sufficient to hold supplies for many years. The view from
the ramparts is glorious--it takes in the whole of the Saxon Highlands,
as far as the lofty Schneeberg in Bohemia. On the other side the eye
follows the windings of the Elbe, as far as the spires of Dresden.
Lilienstein, a mountain of exactly similar formation, but somewhat
higher, stands directly opposite. On walking around, the guide pointed
out a little square tower standing on the brink of a precipice, with a
ledge, about two feet wide, running around it, just below the windows.
He said during the reign of Augustus the Strong, a baron attached to his
court, rose in his sleep after a night of revelry, and stepping out the
window, stretched himself at full length along the ledge. A guard
fortunately observed his situation and informed Augustus of it, who had
him bound and secured with cords, and then awakened by music. It was a
good lesson, and one which no doubt sobered him for the future.

Passing through the little city of Königstein, we walked on to Schandau,
the capital of the Saxon Switzerland, situated on the left bank. It had
sustained great damage from the flood, the whole place having been
literally under water. Here we turned up a narrow valley which led to
the Kuhstall, some eight miles distant. The sides, as usual, were of
steep gray rock, but wide enough apart to give room to some lovely
meadows, with here and there a rustic cottage. The mountain maidens, in
their bright red dresses, with a fanciful scarf bound around the head,
made a romantic addition to the scene. There were some quiet secluded
nooks, where the light of day stole in dimly through the thick foliage
above and the wild stream rushed less boisterously over the rocks. We
sat down to rest in one of these cool retreats, and made the glen ring
with a cheer for America. The echoes repeated the name as if they had
heard it for the first time, and I gave them a strict injunction to
give it back to the next countryman who should pass by.

As we advanced further into the hills the way became darker and wilder.
We heard the sound of falling water in a little dell on one side, and
going nearer, saw a picturesque fall of about fifteen feet. Great masses
of black rock were piled together, over which the mountain-stream fell
in a snowy sheet. The pines above and around grew so thick and close,
that not a sunbeam could enter, and a kind of mysterious twilight
pervaded the spot. In Greece it would have been chosen for an oracle. I
have seen, somewhere, a picture of the Spirit of Poetry, sitting beside
just such a cataract, and truly the nymph could choose no more
appropriate dwelling. But alas for sentiment! while we were admiring its
picturesque beauty, we did not notice a man who came from a hut near by
and went up behind the rocks. All at once there was a roar of water, and
a real torrent came pouring down. I looked up, and lo! there he stood,
with a gate in his hand which had held the water imprisoned, looking
down at us to observe the effect, I motioned him to shut it up again,
and he ran down to us, lest he should lose his fee for the "sight!"

Our road now left the valley and ascended through a forest to the
Kuhstall, which we came upon at once. It is a remarkable natural arch,
through a rocky wall or rampart, one hundred and fifty feet thick. Going
through, we came at the other end to the edge of a very deep precipice,
while the rock towered precipitously far above. Below lay a deep
circular valley, two miles in diameter, and surrounded on every side by
ranges of crags, such as we saw on the Bastei. It was entirely covered
with a pine forest, and there only appeared to be two or three narrow
defiles which gave it a communication with the world. The top of the
Kuhstall can be reached by a path which runs up through a split in the
rock, directly to the summit. It is just wide enough for one person to
squeeze himself through; pieces of wood have been fastened in as steps,
and the rocks in many places close completely above. The place derives
its name from having been used by the mountaineers as a hiding-place for
their cattle in time of war.

Next morning we descended by another crevice in the rock to the lonely
valley, which we crossed, and climbed the Little Winterberg on the
opposite side. There is a wide and rugged view from a little tower on a
precipitous rock near the summit, erected to commemorate the escape of
Prince Augustus of Saxony, who, being pursued by a mad stag, rescued
himself on the very brink, by a lucky blow. Among the many wild valleys
that lay between the hills, we saw scarcely one without the peculiar
rocky formation which gives to Saxon scenery its most interesting
character. They resemble the remains of some mighty work of art, rather
than one of the thousand varied forms in which Nature delights to clothe
herself.

The Great Winterberg, which is reached by another hour's walk along an
elevated ridge, is the highest of the mountains, celebrated for the
grand view from its summit. We found the handsome Swiss hotel recently
built there, full of tourists who had come to enjoy the scone, but the
morning clouds hid every thing. We ascended the tower, and looking
between them as they rolled by, caught glimpses of the broad landscape
below. The Giant's Mountains in Silesia were hidden by the mist, but
sometimes when the wind freshened, we could see beyond the Elbe into
Bohemian Switzerland, where the long Schneeberg rose conspicuous above
the smaller mountains. Leaving the other travellers to wait at their
leisure for clearer weather, we set off for the Prebisehthor, in company
with two or three students from the Polytechnic School in Dresden. An
hour's walk over high hills, whose forest clothing had been swept off by
fire a few years before, brought us to it.

The Prebisehthor is a natural arch, ninety feet high, in a wall of rock
which projects at right angles from the precipitous side of the
mountain. A narrow path leads over the top of the arch to the end of the
rock, where, protected by a railing, the traveller seems to hang in the
air. The valley is far below him--mountains rise up on either side--and
only the narrow bridge connects him with the earth. We descended by a
wooden staircase to the bottom of the arch, near which a rustic inn is
built against the rock, and thence into the valley below, which we
followed through rude lonely scenery, to Hirnischkretschen (!) on the
Elbe.

Crossing the river again for the sixth and last time, we followed the
right bank to Neidergrund, the first Austrian village. Here our
passports were visèd for Prague, and we were allowed to proceed without
any examination of baggage. I noticed a manifest change in our fellow
travelers the moment we crossed the border. They appeared anxious and
careful; if we happened to speak of the state of the country, they
always looked around to see if anybody was near, and if we even passed a
workman on the road, quickly changed to some other subject. They spoke
much of the jealous strictness of the government, and from what I heard
from Austrians themselves, there may have been ground for their
cautiousness.

We walked seven or eight miles along the bank of the Elbe, to Tetschen,
there left our companions and took the road to Teplitz. The scenery was
very picturesque; it must be delightful to float down the swift current
in a boat, as we saw several merry companies do. The river is just small
enough and the banks near enough together, to render such a mode of
travelling delightful, and the strength of the current would carry one
to Dresden in a day.

I was pleasantly disappointed on entering Bohemia. Instead of a dull,
uninteresting country, as I expected, it is a land full of the most
lovely scenery. There is every thing which can gratify the eye--high
blue mountains, valleys of the sweetest pastoral look and romantic old
ruins. The very name of Bohemia is associated with wild and wonderful
legends, of the rude barbaric ages. Even the chivalric tales of the
feudal times of Germany grow tame beside these earlier and darker
histories. The fallen fortresses of the Rhine, or the robber-castles of
the Odenwald had not for me so exciting an interest as the shapeless
ruins cumbering these lonely mountains. The civilized Saxon race was
left behind; I saw around me the features and heard the language of one
of those rude Sclavonic tribes, whose original home was on the vast
steppes of Central Asia. I have rarely enjoyed traveling more than our
first two days' journey towards Prague. The range of the Erzgebirge ran
along on our right; the snow still lay in patches upon it, but the
valleys between, with their little clusters of white cottages, were
green and beautiful. About six miles before reaching Teplitz, we passed
Kulm, the great battle-field, which in a measure decided the fate of
Napoleon. He sent Vandamme with 40,000 men to attack the allies before
they could unite their forces, and thus effect their complete
destruction. Only the almost despairing bravery of the Russian guards
under Ostermann, who held him in check till the allied troops united,
prevented Napoleon's design. At the junction of the roads, where the
fighting was hottest, the Austrians have erected a monument to one of
their generals. Not far from it is that of Prussia, simple and tasteful.
A woody hill near, with the little village of Kulm at its foot, was the
station occupied by Vandamme at the commencement of the battle. There is
now a beautiful chapel on its summit, which can be seen far and wide. A
little distance further, the Emperor of Russia has erected a third
monument to the memory of the Russians who fell. Four lions rest on the
base of the pedestal, and on the top of the shaft, forty-five feet high,
Victory is represented as engraving the date, "Aug. 30, 1813," on a
shield. The dark, pine-covered mountains on the right, overlook the
whole field and the valley of Teplitz; Napoleon rode along their crests
several days after the battle, to witness the scene of his defeat.

Teplitz lies in a lovely valley, several miles wide, bounded by the
Bohemian mountains on one side, and the Erzgebirge on the other. One
straggling peak near is crowned with a picturesque ruin, at whose foot
the spacious bath-buildings lie half hidden in foliage. As we went down
the principal street, I noticed nearly every house was a hotel; we
learned afterwards that in summer the usual average of visitors is five
thousand. The waters resemble those of the celebrated Carlsbad; they are
warm and particularly efficacious in rheumatism and diseases of like
character. After leaving Teplitz, the road turned to the east, towards a
lofty mountain, which we had seen the morning before. The peasants as
they passed by, saluted us with "Christ greet you!"

We stopped for the night at the foot of the peak called the
Milleschauer, and must have ascended nearly 2,000 feet, for we had a
wide view the next morning, although the mists and clouds hid the half
of it. The weather being so unfavorable, we concluded not to ascend,
and taking leave of the Jena student who came there for that purpose,
descended through green fields and orchards snowy with blossoms, to
Lobositz, on the Elbe. Here we reached the plains again, where every
thing wore the luxuriance of summer; it was a pleasant change from the
dark and rough scenery we left. The road passed through Theresienstadt,
the fortress of Northern Bohemia. The little city is surrounded by a
double wall and moat, which can be filled with water, rendering it
almost impossible to be taken. In the morning we were ferried over the
Moldau, and after journeying nearly all day across barren, elevated
plains, saw late in the afternoon the sixty-seven spires of Prague below
us! The dark clouds which hung over the hills, gave us little time to
look upon the singular scene; and we were soon comfortably settled in
the half-barbaric, half-Asiatic city, with a pleasant prospect of seeing
its wonders on the morrow.




CHAPTER XX.

SCENES IN PRAGUE.


_Prague._--I feel as if out of the world, in this strange, fantastic,
yet beautiful old city. We have been rambling all morning through its
winding streets, stopping sometimes at a church to see the dusty tombs
and shrines, or to hear the fine music which accompanies the morning
mass. I have seen no city yet that so forcibly reminds one of the past,
and makes him forget everything but the associations connected with the
scenes around him. The language adds to the illusion. Three-fourths of
the people in the streets speak Bohemian and many of the signs are
written in the same tongue, which is not at all like German. The palace
of the Bohemian kings still looks down on the city from the western
heights, and their tombs stand in the Cathedral of the holy Johannes.
When one has climbed up the stone steps lending to the fortress, there
is a glorious prospect before him. Prague, with its spires and towers,
lies in the valley below, through which curves the Moldau with its green
islands, disappearing among the hills which enclose the city on every
side. The fantastic Byzantine architecture of many of the churches and
towers, gives the city a peculiar oriental appearance; it seems to have
been transported from the hills of Syria. Its streets are full of
palaces, fallen and dwelt in now by the poorer classes. Its famous
University, which once boasted forty thousand students, has long since
ceased to exist. In a word, it is, like Venice, a fallen city; though as
in Venice, the improving spirit of the age is beginning to give it a
little life, and to send a quicker stream through its narrow and winding
arteries. The railroad, which, joining that to Brünn, shall bring it in
connection with Vienna, will be finished this year; in anticipation of
the increased business which will arise from this, speculators are
building enormous hotels in the suburbs and tearing down the old
buildings to give place to more splendid edifices. These operations, and
the chain bridge which spans the Moldau towards the southern end of the
city, are the only things which look modern--every thing else is old,
strange and solemn.

Having found out first a few of the locations, we hunted our way with
difficulty through its labyrinths, seeking out every place of note or
interest. Reaching the bridge at last, we concluded to cross over and
ascend to the Hradschin--the palace of the Bohemian kings. The bridge
was commenced in 1357, and was one hundred and fifty years in building.
That was the way the old Germans did their work, and they made a
structure which will last a thousand years longer. Every pier is
surmounted with groups of saints and martyrs, all so worn and
time-beaten, that there is little left of their beauty, if they ever had
any. The most important of them, at least to Bohemians, is that of the
holy "Johannes of Nepomuck," now considered as the patron-saint of the
land. He was a priest many centuries ago, whom one of the kings threw
from the bridge into the Moldau, because he refused to reveal to him
what the queen confessed. The legend says the body swam for some time on
the river, with five stars around its head. The 16th of May, the day
before we arrived, was that set apart for his particular honor; the
statue on the bridge was covered with an arch of green boughs and
flowers, and the shrine lighted with burning tapers. A railing was
erected around it, near which numbers of the believers were kneeling,
and a priest stood in the inside. The bridge was covered with
passers-by, who all took their hats off till they had passed. Had it
been a place of public worship, the act would have been natural and
appropriate, but to uncover before a statue seemed to us too much like
idolatry, and we ventured over without doing it. A few years ago it
might have been dangerous, but now we only met with scowling looks.
There are many such shrines and statues through the city, and I noticed
that the people always took off their hats and crossed themselves in
passing. On the hill above the western end of the city, stands a chapel
on the spot where the Bavarians put an end to Protestantism in Bohemia
_by the sword_, and the deluded peasantry of the land make pilgrimages
to this spot, as if it were rendered holy by an act over which Religion
weeps!

Ascending the broad flight of steps to the Hradschin, I paused a moment
to look at the scene below. A slight blue haze hung over the clustering
towers, and the city looked dim through it, like a city seen in a dream.
It was well that it should so appear, for not less dim and misty are the
memories that haunt its walls. There was no need of a magician's wand to
bid that light cloud shadow forth the forms of other times. They came
uncalled for, even by fancy. Far, far back in the past, I saw the
warrior-princess who founded the kingly city--the renowned Libussa,
whose prowess and talent inspired the women of Bohemia to rise at her
death and storm the land that their sex might rule where it obeyed
before. On the mountain opposite once stood the palace of the bloody
Wlaska, who reigned with her Amazon band for seven years over half
Bohemia. Those streets below had echoed with the fiery words of Huss,
and the castle of his follower--the blind Ziska, who met and defeated
the armies of the German Empire--moulders on the mountain above. Many a
year of war and tempest has passed over the scene. The hills around have
borne the armies of Wallenstein and Frederic the Great; the war-cry of
Bavaria, Sweden and Poland has echoed in the valley, and the red glare
of the midnight cannon or the flames of burning palaces have often
gleamed along the "blood-dyed waters" of the Moldau!

But this was a day-dream. The throng of people coming up the steps waked
me out of it. We turned and followed them through several spacious
courts, till we arrived at the Cathedral, which is magnificent in the
extreme. The dark Gothic pillars, whose arches unite high above, are
surrounded with gilded monuments and shrines, and the side chapels are
rich in elaborate decorations. A priest was speaking from a pulpit in
the centre, in the Bohemian language, which not being the most
intelligible, I went to the other end to see the shrine of the holy
Johannes of Nepomuck. It stands at the end of one of the side aisles and
is composed of a mass of gorgeous silver ornaments. At a little
distance, on each side, hang four massive lamps of silver, constantly
burning. The pyramid of statues, of the same precious metal, has at
each corner a richly carved urn, three feet high, with a crimson lamp
burning at the top. Above, four silver angels, the size of life, are
suspended in the air, holding up the corners of a splendid drapery of
crimson and gold. If these figures were melted down and distributed
among the poor and miserable people who inhabit Bohemia, they would then
be angels indeed, bringing happiness and blessing to many a ruined home-
altar. In the same chapel is the splendid burial-place of the Bohemian
kings, of gilded marble and alabaster. Numberless tombs, covered with
elaborate ornamental work, fill the edifice. It gives one a singular
feeling to stand at one end and look down the lofty hall, dim with
incense smoke and dark with the weight of many centuries.

On the way down again, we stepped into the St. Nicholas Church, which
was built by the Jesuits. The interior has a rich effect, being all of
brown and gold. The massive pillars are made to resemble reddish-brown
marble, with gilded capitals, and the statues at the base are profusely
ornamented in the same style. The music chained me there a long time.
There was a grand organ, assisted by a full orchestra and large choir of
singers. It was placed above, and at every sound of the priest's bell,
the flourish of trumpets and deep roll of the drums filled the dome with
a burst of quivering sound, while the giant pipes of the organ breathed
out their full harmony and the very air shook under the peal. It was
like a triumphal strain; the soul became filled with thoughts of power
and glory--every sense was changed into one dim, indistinct emotion of
rapture, which held the spirit as if spell-bound. I could almost forgive
the Jesuits the superstition and bigotry they have planted in the minds
of men, for the indescribable enjoyment that music gave. When it ceased,
we went out to the world again, and the recollection of it seems now
like a dream--but a dream whose influence will last longer than many a
more palpable reality.

Not far from this place is the palace of Wallenstein, in the same
condition as when he inhabited it, and still in the possession of his
descendants. It is a plain, large building, having beautiful gardens
attached to it, which are open to the public. We went through the
courtyard, threaded a passage with a roof of rough stalactitic rock, and
entered the garden where a revolving fountain was casting up its
glittering arches. Among the flowers at the other end of the garden
there is a remarkable fountain. It is but a single jet of water which
rises from the middle of a broad basin of woven wire, but by some means
it sustains a hollow gilded ball, sometimes for many minutes at a time.
When the ball drops, the sloping sides of the basin convey it directly
to the fountain again, and it is carried up to dance a while longer on
the top of the jet. I watched it once, thus supported on the water, for
full fifteen minutes.

There is another part of Prague which is not less interesting, though
much less poetical--the Jews' City. In our rambles we got into it before
we were aware, but hurried immediately out of it again, perfectly
satisfied with one visit. We came first into a dark, narrow street,
whose sides were lined with booths of old clothes and second-hand
articles. A sharp featured old woman thrust a coat before my face,
exclaiming, "Herr, buy a fine coat!" Instantly a man assailed me on the
other side, "Here are vests! pantaloons! shirts!" I broke loose from
them and ran on, but it only became worse. One seized me by the arm,
crying, "_Lieber_ Herr, buy some stockings!" and another grasped my
coat: "Hats, Herr! hats! _buy something, or sell me something!_" I
rushed desperately on, shouting "no! no!" with all my might, and finally
got safe through. My friend having escaped their clutches also, we
hunted the way to the old Jewish cemetery. This stands in the middle of
the city, and has not been used for a hundred years. We could find no
entrance, but by climbing upon the ruins of an old house near, I could
look over the wall. A cold shudder crept over me, to think that warm,
joyous Life, as I then felt it, should grow chill and pass back to clay
in such a foul charnel-house. Large mounds of earth, covered with black,
decaying grave-stones, which were almost hidden under the weeds and rank
grass, filled the inclosure. A few dark, crooked alder-trees grew among
the crumbling tombs, and gave the scene an air of gloom and desolation,
almost fearful. The dust of many a generation lies under these
mouldering stones; they now scarcely occupy a thought in the minds of
the living; and yet the present race toils and seeks for wealth alone,
that it may pass away and leave nothing behind--not even a memory for
that which will follow it!




CHAPTER XXI.

JOURNEY THROUGH EASTERN BOHEMIA AND MORAVIA TO THE DANUBE.


Our road the first two days after leaving Prague led across broad,
elevated plains, across which a cold wind came direct from the summits
of the Riesengebirge, far to our left. Were it not for the pleasant view
we had of the rich valley of the Upper Elbe, which afforded a delightful
relief to the monotony of the hills around us, the journey would have
been exceedingly tiresome. The snow still glistened on the distant
mountains; but when the sun shone out, the broad valley below, clad in
the luxuriance of summer, and extending for at least fifty miles with
its woods, meadows and white villages, looked like a real Paradise. The
long ridges over which we travelled extend for nearly a hundred and
fifty miles--from the Elbe almost to the Danube. The soil is not
fertile, the inhabitants are exceedingly poor, and from our own
experience, the climate must be unhealthy. In winter the country is
exposed to the full sweep of the northern winds, and in summer the sun
shines down on it with unbroken force. There are few streams running
through it, and the highest part, which divides the waters of the Baltic
from those of the Black Sea is filled for a long distance with marshes
and standing pools, whose exhalations must inevitably subject the
inhabitants to disease. This was perceptible in their sallow, sickly
countenances; many of the women are afflicted with the _goitre_, or
swelling of the throat; I noticed that towards evening they always
carefully muffled up their faces. According to their own statements, the
people suffer much from the cold in winter, as the few forests the
country affords are in possession of the noblemen to whom the land
belongs, and they are not willing to let them be cut down. The dominions
of these petty despots are marked along the road with as much precision
as the boundaries of an empire; we saw sometimes their stalely castles
at a distance, forming quite a contrast to the poor scattering villages
of the peasants.

At Kollin, the road, which had been running eastward in the direction of
Olmutz, turned to the south, and we took leave of the Elbe, after
tracing back his course from Magdeburg nearly to his home in the
mountains of Silesia. The country was barren and monotonous, but a
bright sunshine made it look somewhat cheerful. We passed, every few
paces, some shrine or statue by the roadside. This had struck me,
immediately on crossing the border, in the Saxon Switzerland--it seemed
as if the boundary of Saxony was that of Protestantism. But here in the
heart of Bohemia, the extent to which this image worship is carried,
exceeds anything I had imagined. There is something pleasing as well as
poetical in the idea of a shrine by the wayside, where the weary
traveller can rest, and raise his heart in thankfulness to the Power
that protects him; it was no doubt a pious spirit that placed them
there; but the people appear to pay the reverence to the picture which
they should give to its spiritual image, and the pictures themselves are
so shocking and ghastly, they seem better calculated to excite horror
than reverence. It was really repulsive to look on images of the Saviour
covered with blood, and generally with swords sticking in different
parts of the body. The Almighty is represented as an old man, wearing a
Bishop's mitre, and the image of the Virgin is always drest in a gay
silk robe, with beads and other ornaments. From the miserable painting,
the faces often had an expression that would have been exceedingly
ludicrous, if the shock given to our feelings of reverence were not
predominant. The poor, degraded peasants always uncovered or crossed
themselves when passing by these shrines, but it appeared to be rather
the effect of habit than any good impulse, for the Bohemians are noted
all over Germany for their dishonesty; we learned by experience they
deserve it. It is not to be wondered at either; for a people so poor and
miserable and oppressed will soon learn to take advantage of all who
appear better off than themselves. They had one custom which was
touching and beautiful. At the sound of the church bell, as it rung the
morning, noon and evening chimes, every one uncovered, and repeated to
himself a prayer. Often, as we rested at noon on a bank by the roadside,
that voice spoke out from the house of worship and every one heeded its
tone. Would that to this innate spirit of reverence were added the light
of Knowledge, which a tyrannical government denies them!

The third night of our journey we stopped at the little village of
Stecken, and the next morning, after three hours' walk over the ridgy
heights, reached the old Moravian city of Iglau, built on a hill. It
happened to be _Corpus Christi_ day, and the peasants of the
neighborhood were hastening there in their gayest dresses. The young
women wore a crimson scarf around the head, with long fringed and
embroidered ends hanging over the shoulders, or falling in one smooth
fold from the back of the head. They were attired in black velvet vests,
with full white sleeves and skirts of some gay color, which were short
enough to show to advantage their red stockings and polished
shoe-buckles. Many of them were not deficient in personal beauty--there
was a gipsy-like wildness in their eyes, that combined with their rich
hair and graceful costume, reminded me of the Italian maidens. The towns
too, with their open squares and arched passages, have quite a southern
look; but the damp, gloomy weather was enough to dispel any illusion of
this kind.

In the neighborhood of Iglau, and, in fact, through the whole of
Bohemia, we saw some of the strangest teams that could well be imagined.
I thought the Frankfort milkwomen with their donkeys and hearse-like
carts, were comical objects enough, but they bear no comparison with
these Bohemian turn-outs. Dogs--for economy's sake, perhaps--generally
supply the place of oxen or horses, and it is no uncommon thing to see
three large mastiffs abreast, harnessed to a country-cart. A donkey and
a cow together, are sometimes met with, and one man, going to the
festival at Iglau, had his wife and children in a little wagon, drawn by
a dog and a donkey. These two, however, did not work well together; the
dog would bite his lazy companion, and the man's time was constantly
employed in whipping him off the donkey, and in whipping the donkey away
from the side of the road. Once I saw a wagon drawn by a dog, with a
woman pushing behind, while a man, doubtless her lord and master, sat
comfortably within, smoking his pipe with the greatest complacency! The
very climax of all was a woman and a dog harnessed _together_, taking a
load of country produce to market! I hope, for the honor of the country,
it was not emblematic of woman's condition there. But as we saw hundreds
of them breaking stone along the road, and occupied at other laborious
and not less menial labor, there is too much reason to fear that it is
so.

As we approached Iglau, we heard cannon firing; the crowd increased, and
following the road, we came to an open square, where a large number were
already assembled; shrines were erected around it, hung with pictures
and pine boughs, and a long procession of children was passing down the
side as we entered. We went towards the middle, where Neptune and his
Tritons poured the water from their urns into two fountains, and stopped
to observe the scene. The procession came on, headed by a large body of
priests, in white robes, with banners and crosses. They stopped before
the principal shrine, in front of the Rathhaus, and began a solemn
religious ceremony. The whole crowd of not less than ten thousand
persons, stood silent and uncovered, and the deep voice of the
officiating priest was heard over the whole square. At times the
multitude sang responses, and I could mark the sound, swelling and
rolling up like a mighty wave, till it broke and slowly sank down again
to the deepest stillness. The effect was marred by the rough voice of
the officers commanding the soldiery, and the volleys of musquetry which
were occasionally discharged. It degraded the solemnity of the pageant
to the level of a military parade.

In the afternoon we were overtaken by a travelling _handwerker_, on his
way to Vienna, who joined company with us. We walked several miles
together, talking on various matters, without his having the least
suspicion we were not Germans. He had been at Trieste, and at length
began speaking of the great beauty of the American vessels there. "Yes,"
said I, "_our_ vessels are admired all over the world." He stared at me
without comprehending;--"_your_ vessels?" "Our country's," I replied;
"we are Americans!" I can see still his look of incredulous astonishment
and hear the amazed tone with which he cried: "_You_ Americans--it is
impossible!" We convinced him nevertheless, to his great joy, for all
through Germany there is a curiosity to see our countrymen and a kindly
feeling towards them. "I shall write down in my book," said he, "so that
I shall never forget it, that I once travelled with two Americans!" We
stopped together for the night at the only inn in a large, beggarly
village, where we obtained a frugal supper with difficulty, for a
regiment of Polish lancers was quartered there for the night, and the
pretty _Kellnerin_ was so busy in waiting on the officers that she had
no eye for wandering journeymen, as she took us to be. She even told us
the beds were all occupied and we must sleep on the floor. Just then the
landlord came by. "Is it possible, Herr Landlord," asked our new
companion, "that there is no bed here for us? Have the goodness to look
again, for we are not in the habit of sleeping on the floor, like dogs!"
This speech had its effect, for the _Kellnerin_ was commanded to find us
beds. She came back unwillingly after a time and reported that _two_,
only, were vacant. As a German bed is only a yard wide, we pushed these
two together, but they were still too small for three persons, and I had
a severe cold in the morning, from sleeping crouched up against the damp
wall.

The next day we passed the dividing ridge which separates the waters of
the Elbe from the Danube, and in the evening arrived at Znaim, the
capital of Moravia. It is built on a steep hill looking down on the
valley of the Thaya, whose waters mingle with the Danube near Pressburg.
The old castle on the height near, was formerly the residence of the
Moravian monarchs, and traces of the ancient walls and battlements of
the city are still to be seen. The handwerker took us to the inn
frequented by his craft--the leather-curriers--and we conversed together
till bed-time. While telling me of the oppressive laws of Austria, the
degrading vassalage of the peasants and the horrors of the conscription
system, he paused as in deep thought, and looking at me with a
suppressed sigh, said: "Is it not true, America is free?" I told him of
our country and her institutions, adding that though we were not yet as
free as we hoped and wished to be, we enjoyed far more liberty than any
country in the world. "Ah!" said he, "it is hard to leave one's
fatherland oppressed as it is, but I wish I could go to America!"

We left next morning at eight o'clock, after having done full justice
to the beds of the "Golden Stag," and taken leave of Florian Francke,
the honest and hearty old landlord. Znaim appears to great advantage
from the Vienna road; the wind which blew with fury against our backs,
would not permit us to look long at it, but pushed us on towards the
Austrian border. In the course of three hours we were obliged to stop at
a little village; it blew a perfect hurricane and the rain began to soak
through our garments. Here we stayed three hours among the wagoners who
stopped on account of the weather. One miserable, drunken wretch, whom
one would not wish to look at more than once, distinguished himself by
insulting those around him, and devouring like a beast, large quantities
of food. When the reckoning was given him, he declared he had already
paid, and the waiter denying it, he said, "Stop, I will show you
something!" pulled out his passport and pointed to the name--"Baron von
Reitzenstein." It availed nothing; he had fallen so low that his title
inspired no respect, and when we left the inn they were still
endeavoring to get their money and threatening him with a summary
proceeding if the demand was not complied with.

Next morning the sky was clear and a glorious day opened before us. The
country became more beautiful as we approached the Danube; the hills
were covered with vineyards, just in the tender green of their first
leaves, and the rich valleys lay in Sabbath stillness in the warm
sunshine. Sometimes from an eminence we could see far and wide over the
garden-like slopes, where little white villages shone among the
blossoming fruit-trees. A chain of blue hills rose in front, which I
knew almost instinctively stood by the Danube; when we climbed to the
last height and began to descend to the valley, where the river was
still hidden by luxuriant groves, I saw far to the southwest, a range of
faint, silvery summits, rising through the dim ether like an airy
vision. There was no mistaking those snowy mountains. My heart bounded
with a sudden thrill of rapturous excitement at this first view of _the
Alps!_ They were at a great distance, and their outline was almost
blended with the blue drapery of air which clothed them. I gazed till my
vision became dim and I could no longer trace their airy lines. They
called up images blended with the grandest events in the world's
history. I thought of the glorious spirits who have looked upon them and
trodden their rugged sides--of the storms in which they veil their
countenances, and the avalanches they hurl thundering to the valleys--of
the voices of great deeds, which have echoed from their crags over the
wide earth--and of the ages which have broken, like the waves of a
mighty sea, upon their everlasting summits!

As we descended, the hills and forests shut out this sublime vision, and
I looked to the wood-clothed mountains opposite and tried to catch a
glimpse of the current that rolled at their feet. We here entered upon a
rich plain, about ten miles in diameter, which lay between a backward
sweep of the hills and a curve of the Danube. It was covered with the
richest grain; every thing wore the luxuriance of summer, and we seemed
to have changed seasons since leaving the dreary hills of Bohemia.
Continuing over the plain, we had on our left the fields of Wagram and
Essling, the scene of two of Napoleon's blood-bought victories. The
outposts of the Carpathians skirted the horizon--that great mountain
range which stretches through Hungary to the borders of Russia.

At length the road came to the river's side, and we crossed on wooden
bridges over two or three arms of the Danube, all of which together were
little wider than the Schuylkill at Philadelphia. When we crossed the
last bridge, we came to a kind of island covered with groves of the
silver ash. Crowds of people filled the cool walks; booths of
refreshment stood by the roadside, and music was everywhere heard. The
road finally terminated in a circle, where beautiful alleys radiated
into the groves; from the opposite side a broad street lined with
stately buildings extended into the heart of the city, and through this
avenue, filled with crowds of carriages and people on their way to those
delightful walks, we entered Vienna!




CHAPTER XXII.

VIENNA.


_May 31._--I have at last seen the thousand wonders of this great
capital--this German Paris--this connecting link between the
civilization of Europe and the barbaric magnificence of the East. It
looks familiar to be in a city again, whose streets are thronged with
people, and resound with the din and bustle of business. It reminds me
of the never-ending crowds of London, or the life and tumult of our
scarcely less active New York. Although the end may be sordid for which
so many are laboring, yet the very sight of so much activity is
gratifying. It is peculiarly so to an American. After residing in a
foreign land for some time, the peculiarities of our nation are more
easily noticed; I find in my countrymen abroad a vein of restless
energy--a love for exciting action--which to many of our good German
friends is perfectly incomprehensible. It might have been this which
gave at once a favorable impression of Vienna.

The morning of our arrival we sallied out from our lodgings in the
Leopoldstadt, to explore the world before us. Entering the broad
Praterstrasse, we passed down to the little arm of the Danube, which
separates this part of the new city from the old. A row of magnificent
coffee-houses occupy the bank, and numbers of persons were taking their
breakfasts in the shady porticoes. The Ferdinand's Bridge, which crosses
the stream, was filled with people; in the motley crowd we saw the
dark-eyed Greek, and Turks in their turbans and flowing robes. Little
brown Hungarian boys were going around, selling bunches of lilies, and
Italians with baskets of oranges stood by the side-walk. The throng
became greater as we penetrated into the old city. The streets were
filled with carts and carriages, and as there are no side-pavements, it
required constant attention to keep out of their way. Splendid shops,
fitted up with great taste, occupied the whole of the lower stories, and
goods of all kinds hung beneath the canvass awnings in front of them.
Almost every store or shop was dedicated to some particular person or
place, which was represented on a large panel by the door. The number of
these paintings added much to the splendor of the scene; I was gratified
to find, among the images of kings and dukes, one dedicated "_to the
American_," with an Indian chief in full costume.

The _Altstadt_, or old city, which contains about sixty thousand
inhabitants, is completely separated from the suburbs, whose population,
taking the whole extent within the outer barrier, numbers nearly half a
million. It is situated on a small arm of the Danube, and encompassed by
a series of public promenades, gardens and walks, varying from a quarter
to half a mile in length, called the Glacis. This formerly belonged to
the fortifications of the city, but as the suburbs grew up so rapidly on
all sides, it was changed appropriately to a public walk. The city is
still surrounded with a massive wall and a deep wide moat; but since it
was taken by Napoleon in 1809, the moat has been changed into a garden,
with a beautiful carriage road along the bottom, around the whole city.
It is a beautiful sight, to stand on the summit of the wall and look
over the broad Glacis, with its shady roads branching in every
direction, and filled with inexhaustible streams of people. The
Vorstaedte, or new cities, stretch in a circle around, beyond this; all
the finest buildings front on the Glacis, among which the splendid
Vienna Theatre and the church of San Carlo Borromeo are conspicuous. The
mountains of the Vienna Forest bound the view, with here and there a
stately castle on their woody summits. I was reminded of London as seen
from Regent's Park, and truly this part of Vienna can well compare with
it. On penetrating into the suburbs, the resemblance is at an end. Many
of the public thoroughfares are still unpaved, and in dry weather one is
almost choked by the clouds of fine dust. A furious wind blows from the
mountains, sweeping the streets almost constantly and filling the eyes
and ears with it, making the city an unhealthy residence for strangers.

There is no lack of places for pleasure or amusement. Beside the
numberless walks of the Glacis, there are the Imperial Gardens, with
their cool shades and flowers and fountains; the Augarten, laid out and
opened to the public by the Emperor Joseph: and the Prater, the largest
and most beautiful of all. It lies on an island formed by the arms of
the Danube, and is between two and three miles square. From the circle
at the end of the Praterstrasse, broad carriage-ways extend through its
forests of oak and silver ash, and over its verdant lawns to the
principal stream, which bounds it on the north. These roads are lined
with stately horse chesnuts, whose branches unite and form a dense
canopy, completely shutting out the sun. Every afternoon the beauty and
nobility of Vienna whirl through the cool groves in their gay equipages,
while the sidewalks are thronged with pedestrians, and the numberless
tables and seats with which every house of refreshment is surrounded,
are filled with merry guests. Here, on Sundays and holidays, the people
repair in thousands. The woods are full of tame deer, which run
perfectly free over the whole Prater. I saw several in one of the lawns,
lying down in the grass, with a number of children playing around or
sitting beside them. It is delightful to walk there in the cool of the
evening, when the paths are crowded, and everybody is enjoying the
release from the dusty city. It is this free, social life which renders
Vienna so attractive to foreigners and draws yearly thousands of
visitors from all parts of Europe.

St. Stephen's Cathedral, in the centre of the old city, is one of the
finest specimens of Gothic architecture in Germany. Its unrivalled
tower, which rises to the height of four hundred and twenty-eight feet,
is visible from every part of Vienna. It is entirely of stone, most
elaborately ornamented, and is supposed to be the strongest in Europe.
If the tower was finished, it might rival any church in Europe in
richness and brilliancy of appearance. The inside is solemn and grand;
but the effect is injured by the number of small chapels and shrines. In
one of these rests, the remains of Prince Eugene of Savoy, "_der edle
Ritter_," known in a ballad to every man, woman and child in Germany.

The Belvidere Gallery fills thirty-five halls, and contains three
thousand pictures! It is absolutely bewildering to walk through such
vast collections; you can do no more than glance at each painting, and
hurry by face after face, and figure after figure, on which you would
willingly gaze for hours and inhale the atmosphere of beauty that
surrounds them. Then after you leave, the brain is filled with their
forms--radiant spirit-faces look upon you, and you see constantly, in
fancy, the calm brow of a Madonna, the sweet young face of a child, or
the blending of divine with mortal beauty in an angel's countenance. I
endeavor, if possible, always to make several visits--to study those
pictures which cling _first_ to the memory, and pass over those which
make little or no impression. It is better to have a few images fresh
and enduring, than a confused and indistinct memory of many.

From the number of Madonnas in every European gallery, it would almost
seem that the old artists painted nothing else. The subject is one which
requires the highest genius to do it justice, and it is therefore
unpleasant to see so many still, inexpressive faces of the virgin and
child, particularly by the Dutch artists, who clothe their figures
sometimes in the stiff costume of their own time. Raphael and Murillo
appear to me to be almost the only painters who have expressed what,
perhaps, was above the power of other masters--the combined love and
reverence of the mother, and the divine expression in the face of the
child, prophetic of his mission and godlike power.

There were many glorious old paintings in the second story, which is
entirely taken up with pictures; two or three of the halls were devoted
to selected works from modern artists. Two of these I would give every
thing I have to possess. One of them is a winter scene, representing the
portico of an old Gothic church. At the base of one of the pillars a
woman is seated in the snow, half-benumbed, clasping an infant to her
breast, while immediately in front stands a boy of perhaps seven or
eight years, his little hands folded in prayer, while the chill wind
tosses the long curls from his forehead. There is something so pure and
holy in the expression of his childish countenance, so much feeling in
the lip and sorrowful eye, that it moves one almost to tears to look
upon it. I turned back half a dozen times from the other pictures to
view it again, and blessed the artist in my heart for the lesson he
gave. The other is by a young Italian painter, whose name I have
forgotten, but who, if he never painted anything else, is worthy a high
place among the artists of his country. It represents some scene from
the history of Venice. On an open piazza, a noble prisoner, wasted and
pale from long confinement, has just had an interview with his children.
He reaches his arm toward them as if for the last time, while a savage
keeper drags him away. A lovely little girl kneels at the feet of the
Doge, but there is no compassion in his stern features, and it is easy
to see that her father is doomed.

The Lower Belvidere, separated from the Upper by a large garden, laid
out in the style of that at Versailles, contains the celebrated
_Ambraser Sammlung_, a collection of armor. In the first hall I noticed
the complete armor of the Emperor Maximilian, for man and horse--the
armor of Charles V., and Prince Moritz of Saxony, while the walls were
filled with figures of German nobles and knights, in the suits they wore
in life. There is also the armor of the great "Baver of Trient," trabant
of the Archduke Ferdinand. He was nearly nine feet in stature, and his
spear, though not equal to Satan's, in Paradise Lost, would still make a
tree of tolerable dimensions.

In the second hall we saw weapons taken from the Turkish army who
besieged Vienna, with the horse-tail standards of the Grand Vizier, Kara
Mustapha. The most interesting article was the battle-axe of the
unfortunate Montezuma, which was probably given to the Emperor Charles
V., by Cortez. It is a plain instrument of dark colored stone, about
three feet long.

We also visited the _Bürgerliche Zeughaus_, a collection of arms and
weapons, belonging to the citizens of Vienna. It contains sixteen
thousand weapons and suits of armor, including those plundered from the
Turks, when John Sobieski conquered them and relieved Vienna from the
siege. Besides a great number of sabres, lances and horsetails, there is
the blood-red banner of the Grand Vizier, as well as his skull and
shroud, which is covered with sentences from the Koran. On his return to
Belgrade, after the defeat at Vienna, the Sultan sent him a bow-string,
and he was accordingly strangled. The Austrians having taken Belgrade
some time after, they opened his grave and carried off his skull and
shroud, as well as the bow-string, as relics. Another large and richly
embroidered banner, which hung in a broad sheet from the ceiling, was
far more interesting to me. It had once waved from the vessels of the
Knights of Malta, and had, perhaps, on the prow of the Grand Master's
ship, led that romantic band to battle against the Infidel.

A large number of peasants and common soldiers were admitted to view the
armory at the same time. The grave _custode_ who showed us the
curiosities, explaining every thing in phrases known by heart for years
and making the same starts of admiration whenever he came to any thing
peculiarly remarkable, singled us out as the two persons most worthy of
attention. Accordingly his remarks were directed entirely to us, and his
humble countrymen might as well have been invisible, for the notice he
took of them. On passing out, we gave him a coin worth about fifteen
cents, which happened to be so much more than the others gave him, that,
bowing graciously, he invited us to write our names in the album for
strangers. While we were doing this, a poor handwerker lingered behind,
apparently for the same object, whom he scornfully dismissed, shaking
the fifteen cent piece in his hand, and saying: "The album is not for
such as you--it is for noble gentlemen!"

On our way through the city, we often noticed a house on the southern
side of St. Stephen's Platz, dedicated to "the Iron Stick." In a niche
by the window, stood what appeared to be the limb of a tree, completely
filled with nails, which were driven in so thick that no part of the
original wood is visible. We learned afterwards the legend concerning
it. The Vienna Forest is said to have extended, several hundred years
ago, to this place. A locksmith's apprentice was enabled, by the devil's
help, to make the iron bars and padlock which confine the limb in its
place; every locksmith's apprentice who came to Vienna after that, drove
a nail into it, till finally there was room for no more. It is a
singular legend, and whoever may have placed the limb there originally,
there it has remained for two or three hundred years at least.

We spent two or three hours delightfully one evening in listening to
Strauss's band. We went about sunset to the Odeon, a new building in the
Leopoldstadt. It has a refreshment hall nearly five hundred feet long,
with a handsome fresco ceiling and glass doors opening into a garden
walk of the same length. Both the hall and garden were filled with
tables, where the people seated themselves as they came, and conversed
sociably over their coffee and wine. The orchestra was placed in a
little ornamental temple in the garden, in front of which I stationed
myself, for I was anxious to see the world's waltz-king, whose magic
tones can set the heels of half Christendom in motion. After the band
had finished tuning their instruments, a middle-sized, handsome man
stepped forward with long strides, with a violin in one hand and bow in
the other, and began waving the latter up and down, like a magician
summoning his spirits. As if he had waved the sound out of his bow, the
tones leaped forth from the instruments, and guided by his eye and hand,
fell into a merry measure. The accuracy with which every instrument
performed its part, was truly marvellous. He could not have struck the
measure or the harmony more certainly from the keys of his own piano,
than from that large band. The sounds struggled forth, so perfect and
distinct, that one almost expected to see them embodied, whirling in
wild dance around him. Sometimes the air was so exquisitely light and
bounding, the feet could scarcely keep on the earth; then it sank into a
mournful lament, with a sobbing tremulousness, and died away in a
long-breathed sigh. Strauss seemed to feel the music in every limb. He
would wave his fiddle-bow awhile, then commence playing with desperate
energy, moving his whole body to the measure, till the sweat rolled from
his brow. A book was lying on the stand before him, but he made no use
of it. He often glanced around with a kind of half-triumphant smile at
the restless crowd, whose feet could scarcely be restrained from
bounding to the magic measure. It was the horn of Oberon realized. The
composition of the music displayed great talent, but its charm consisted
more in the exquisite combination of the different instruments, and the
perfect, the wonderful exactness with which each performed its part--a
piece of art of the most elaborate and refined character.

The company, which consisted of several hundred, appeared to be full of
enjoyment. They sat under the trees in the calm, cool twilight, with the
stars twinkling above, and talked and laughed sociably together between
the pauses of the music, or strolled up and down the lighted alleys. We
walked up and down with them, and thought how much we should enjoy such
a scene at home, where the faces around us would be those of friends,
and the language our mother tongue!

We went a long way through the suburbs one bright afternoon, to a little
cemetery about a mile from the city, to find the grave of Beethoven. On
ringing at the gate a girl admitted us into the grounds, in which are
many monuments of noble families who have vaults there. I passed up the
narrow walk, reading the inscriptions, till I came to the tomb of Franz
Clement, a young composer, who died two or three years ago. On turning
again, my eye fell instantly on the word "BEETHOVEN," in golden letters,
on a tombstone of gray marble. A simple gilded lyre decorated the
pedestal, above which was a serpent encircling a butterfly--the emblem
of resurrection to eternal life. Here then, mouldered the remains of
that restless spirit, who seemed to have strayed to earth from another
clime, from such a height did he draw his glorious conceptions. The
perfection he sought for here in vain, he has now attained in a world
where the soul is freed from the bars which bind it in this. There were
no flowers planted around the tomb by those who revered his genius; only
one wreath, withered and dead, lay among the grass, as if left long ago
by some solitary pilgrim, and a few wild buttercups hung with their
bright blossoms over the slab. It might have been wrong, but I could not
resist the temptation to steal one or two, while the old grave-digger
was busy preparing a new tenement. I thought that other buds would open
in a few days, but those I took would be treasured many a year as sacred
relics. A few paces off is the grave of Schubert, the composer, whose
beautiful songs are heard all over Germany.

It would employ one a week to visit all the rich collections of art in
Vienna. They are all open to the public on certain days of the week, and
we have been kept constantly in motion, running from one part of the
city to another, in order to arrive at some gallery at the appointed
time. Tickets, which have to be procured often in quite different parts
of the city, are necessary for admittance to many; on applying after
much trouble and search, we frequently found we came at the wrong hour,
and must leave without effecting our object. We employed no guide, but
preferred finding every thing ourselves. We made a list every morning,
of the collections open during the day, and employed the rest of the
time in visiting the churches and public gardens, or rambling through
the suburbs.

We visited the Imperial Library a day or two ago. The hall is 245 feet
long, with a magnificent dome in the centre, under which stands the
statue of Charles V., of Carrara marble, surrounded by twelve other
monarchs of the house of Hapsburg. The walls are of variegated marble,
richly ornamented with gold, and the ceiling and dome are covered with
brilliant fresco paintings. The library numbers 300,000 volumes, and
16,000 manuscripts, which are kept in walnut cases, gilded and adorned
with medallions. The rich and harmonious effect of the whole cannot
easily be imagined. It is exceedingly appropriate that a hall of such
splendor, should be used to hold a library. The pomp of a palace may
seem hollow and vain, for it is but the dwelling of a man; but no
building can be too magnificent for the hundreds of great and immortal
spirits to dwell in, who have visited earth during thirty centuries.

Among other curiosities preserved in the collection, we were shown a
brass plate, containing one of the records of the Roman Senate, made 180
years before Christ, Greek manuscripts of the fifth and sixth centuries,
and a volume of Psalms, printed on parchment, in the year 1457, by Faust
and Schaeffer, the inventors of printing. There were also Mexican
manuscripts, presented by Cortez; the prayer-book of Hildegard, wife of
Charlemagne, in letters of gold; the signature of San Carlo Borromeo,
and a Greek testament of the thirteenth century, which had been used by
Erasmus in making his translation and contains notes in his own hand.
The most interesting article was the "Jerusalem Delivered" of Tasso, in
the poet's own hand, with his erasions and corrections.

We also visited the Cabinet of Natural History, which is open twice a
week "to all _respectably dressed_ persons," as the notice at the door
says. But Heaven forbid that I should attempt to describe what we saw
there. The Mineral Cabinet had a greater interest to me, inasmuch as it
called up the recollections of many a school-boy ramble over the hills
and into all kinds of quarries, far and near. It is said to be the most
perfect collection in existence. I was pleased to find many old
acquaintances there, from the mines of Pennsylvania; Massachusetts and
New York were also very well represented. I had no idea before, that the
mineral wealth of Austria was so great. Besides the iron and lead mines
among the hills of Styria and the quicksilver of Idria, there is no
small amount of gold and silver found, and the Carpathian mountains are
rich in jasper, opal and lapiz lazuli. The largest opal ever found, was
in this collection. It weighs thirty-four ounces and looks like a
condensed rainbow.

In passing the palace, we saw several persons entering the basement
story under the Library, and had the curiosity to follow them. By so
doing, we saw the splendid equipages of the house of Austria. There must
have been near a hundred carriages and sleds, of every shape and style,
from the heavy, square vehicle of the last century to the most light and
elegant conveyance of the present day. One clumsy, but magnificent
machine, of crimson and gold, was pointed out as being a hundred and
fifty years old. The misery we witnessed in starving Bohemia, formed a
striking contrast to all this splendor.

Beside the Imperial Picture Gallery, there are several belonging to
princes and noblemen in Vienna, which are scarcely less valuable. The
most important of these is that of Prince Liechtenstein, which we
visited yesterday. We applied to the porter's lodge for admittance to
the gallery, but he refused to open it for two persons; as we did not
wish a long walk for nothing, we concluded to wait for other visitors.
Presently a gentleman and lady came and inquired if the gallery was
open. We told him it would probably be opened now, although the porter
required a larger number, and he went to ask. After a short time he
returned, saying: "He will come immediately; I thought best to put the
number a little higher, and so I told him there were _six_ of us!"
Having little artistic knowledge of paintings, I judge of them according
to the effect they produce upon me--in proportion as they gratify the
innate love for the beautiful and the true. I have been therefore
disappointed in some painters whose names are widely known, and
surprised again to find works of great beauty by others of smaller fame.
Judging by such a standard, I should say that "Cupid sleeping in the
lap of Venus," by Correggio, is the glory of this collection. The
beautiful limbs of the boy-god droop in the repose of slumber, as his
head rests on his mother's knee, and there is a smile lingering around
his half-parted lips, as if he was dreaming new triumphs. The face is
not that of the wicked, mischief-loving child, but rather a sweet
cherub, bringing a blessing to all he visits. The figure of the goddess
is exquisite. Her countenance, unearthly in its loveliness, expresses
the tenderness of a young mother, as she sits with one finger pressed on
her rosy lip, watching his slumber. It is a picture which "stings the
brain with beauty."

The chapel of St. Augustine contains one of the best works of
Canova--the monument of the Grand Duchess, Maria Christina, of
Sachsen-Teschen. It is a pyramid of gray marble, twenty-eight feet high,
with an opening in the side, representing the entrance to a sepulchre. A
female figure personating Virtue bears in an urn to the grave, the ashes
of the departed, attended by two children with torches. The figure of
Compassion follows, leading an aged beggar to the tomb of his
benefactor, and a little child with its hands folded. On the lower step
rests a mourning Genius beside a sleeping lion, and a bas-relief on the
pyramid above represents an angel carrying Christina's image, surrounded
with the emblem of eternity, to Heaven. A spirit of deep sorrow, which
is touchingly portrayed in the countenance of the old man, pervades the
whole group. While we looked at it, the organ breathed out a slow,
mournful strain, which harmonized so fully with the expression of the
figures, that we seemed to be listening to the requiem of the one they
mourned. The combined effect of music and sculpture, thus united in
their deep pathos, was such, that I could have sat down and wept. It was
not from sadness at the death of a benevolent though unknown
individual,--but the feeling of grief, of perfect, unmingled sorrow, so
powerfully represented, came to the heart like an echo of its own
emotion, and carried it away with irresistible influence. Travellers
have described the same feeling while listening to the Miserere in the
Sistine Chapel, at Rome. Canova could not have chiseled the monument
without tears.

One of the most interesting objects in Vienna, is the Imperial Armory.
We were admitted through tickets previously procured from the Armory
Direction; as there was already one large company within, we were told
to wait in the court till our turn came. Around the wall on the inside,
is suspended the enormous chain which the Turks stretched across the
Danube at Buda, in the year 1529, to obstruct the navigation. It has
eight thousand links and is nearly a mile in length. The court is filled
with cannon of all shapes and sizes, many of which were conquered from
other nations. I saw a great many which were cast during the French
Revolution, with the words "_Liberté! Egalité!_" upon them, and a number
of others bearing the simple letter "N."

Finally the first company came down and the forty or fifty persons who
had collected during the interval, were admitted. The Armory runs around
a hollow square, and must be at least a quarter of a mile in length. We
were all taken into a circular hall, made entirely of weapons, to
represent the four quarters of the globe. Here the crusty old guide who
admitted us, rapped with his stick on the shield of an old knight who
stood near, to keep silence, and then addressed us: "When I speak every
one must be silent. No one can write or draw anything. No one shall
touch anything, or go to look at anything else, before I have done
speaking. Otherwise, they shall be taken immediately into the street
again!" Thus in every hall he rapped and scolded, driving the women to
one side with his stick and the men to the other, till we were nearly
through, when the thought of the coming fee made him a little more
polite. He had a regular set of descriptions by heart, which he went
through with a great flourish, pointing particularly to the common
military caps of the late Emperors of Prussia and Austria, as "treasures
beyond all price to the nation!" Whereupon, the crowd of common people
gazed reverently on the shabby beavers, and I verily believe, would have
devoutly kissed them, had the glass covering been removed. I happened to
be next to a tall, dignified young man, who looked on all this with a
displeasure almost amounting to contempt. Seeing I was a foreigner, he
spoke, in a low tone, bitterly of the Austrian government. "You are not
then an Austrian?" I asked. "No, thank God!" was the reply: "but I have
seen enough of Austrian tyranny. I am a Pole!"

The first wing contains banners used in the French Revolution, and
liberty trees with the red cap; the armor of Rudolph of Hapsburg,
Maximilian I., the Emperor Charles V., and the hat, sword and order of
Marshal Schwarzenberg. Some of the halls represent a fortification, with
walls, ditches and embankments, made of muskets and swords. A long room
in the second wing contains an encampment, in which twelve or fifteen
large tents are formed in like manner. Along the sides are grouped old
Austrian banners, standards taken from the French, and horsetails and
flags captured from the Turks. "They make a great boast," said the Pole,
"of a half dozen French colors, but let them go to the Hospital des
Invalides, in Paris, and they will find _hundreds_ of the best banners
of Austria!" They also exhibited the armor of a dwarf king of Bohemia
and Hungary, who died, a gray-headed old man, in his twentieth year; the
sword of Marlborough; the coat of Gustavus Adolphus, pierced in the
breast and back with the bullet which killed him at Lützen; the armor of
the old Bohemian princess Libussa, and that of the amazon Wlaska, with a
steel visor made to fit the features of her face. The last wing was the
most remarkable. Here we saw the helm and breastplate of Attila, king of
the Huns, which once glanced at the head of his myriads of wild hordes,
before the walls of Rome; the armor of Count Stahremberg, who commanded
Vienna during the Turkish siege in 1529, and the holy banner of Mahomet,
taken at that time from the Grand Vizier, together with the steel
harness of John Sobieski of Poland, who rescued Vienna from the Turkish
troops under Kara Mustapha; the hat, sword and breastplate of Godfrey of
Bouillon, the Crusader-king of Jerusalem, with the banners of the cross
the Crusaders had borne to Palestine, and the standard they captured
from the Turks on the walls of the Holy City! I felt all my boyish
enthusiasm for the romantic age of the Crusaders revive, as I looked on
the torn and mouldering banners which once waved on the hills of Judea,
or perhaps followed the sword of the Lion Heart through the fight on the
field of Ascalon! What tales could they not tell, those old standards,
cut and shivered by spear and lance! What brave hands have carried them
through the storm of battle, what dying eyes have looked upwards to the
cross on their folds, as the last prayer was breathed for the rescue of
the Holy Sepulchre!

I must now close the catalogue. This morning we shall look upon Vienna
for the last time. Our knapsacks are repacked, and the passports
(precious documents!) visèd for Munich. The getting of this visè,
however, caused a comical scene at the Police Office, yesterday. We
entered the Inspector's Hall and took our stand quietly among the crowd
of persons who were gathered around a railing which separated them from
the main office. One of the clerks came up, scowling at us, and asked in
a rough tone, "What do you want here?" We handed him our tickets of
sojourn (for when a traveler spends more than twenty-four hours in a
German city, he must take out a permission and pay for it) with the
request that he would give us our passports. He glanced over the
tickets, came back and with constrained politeness asked us to step
within the railing. Here we were introduced to the Chief Inspector.
"Desire Herr---- to come here," said he to a servant; then turning to
us, "I am happy to see the gentlemen in Vienna." An officer immediately
came up, who addressed us in fluent English. "You may speak in your
native tongue," said the Inspector:--"excuse our neglect; from the
facility with which you speak German, we supposed you were natives of
Austria!" Our passports were signed at once and given us with a gracious
bow, accompanied by the hope that we would visit Vienna again before
long. All this, of course, was perfectly unintelligible to the wondering
crowd outside the railing. Seeing however, the honors we were receiving,
they crowded back and respectfully made room for us to pass out. I kept
a grave face till we reached the bottom of the stairs, when I gave way
to restrained laughter in a manner that shocked the dignity of the
guard, who looked savagely at me over his forest of moustache. I would
nevertheless have felt grateful for the attention we received as
Americans, were it not for our uncourteous reception as suspected
Austrians.

We have just been exercising the risible muscles again, though from a
very different cause, and one which, according to common custom, ought
to draw forth symptoms of a lachrymose nature. This morning B----
suggested an examination of our funds, for we had neglected keeping a
strict account, and what with being cheated in Bohemia and tempted by
the amusements of Vienna, there was an apparent dwindling away. So we
emptied our pockets and purses, counted up the contents, and found we
had just ten florins, or four dollars apiece. The thought of our
situation, away in the heart of Austria, five hundred miles from our
Frankfort home, seems irresistibly laughable. By allowing twenty days
for the journey, we shall have half a florin a day, to travel on. This
is a homoeopathic allowance, indeed, but we have concluded to try it. So
now adieu, Vienna! In two hours we shall be among the hills again.




CHAPTER XXIII.

UP THE DANUBE.


We passed out of Vienna in the face of one of the strongest winds it was
ever my lot to encounter. It swept across the plain with such force that
it was almost impossible to advance till we got under the lee of a range
of hills. About two miles from the barrier we passed Schoenbrunn, the
Austrian Versailles. It was built by the Empress Maria Theresa, and was
the residence of Napoleon in 1809, when Vienna was in the hands of the
French. Later, in 1832, the Duke of Reichstadt died in the same room
which his father once occupied. Behind the palace is a magnificent
garden, at the foot of a hill covered with rich forests and crowned with
an open pillared hall, 300 feet long, called the _Gloriette_. The
colossal eagle which surmounts it, can be seen a great distance.

The lovely valley in which Schoenbrunn lies, follows the course of the
little river Vienna into the heart of that mountain region lying between
the Styrian Alps and the Danube, and called the Vienna Forest. Into this
our road led, between hills covered with wood, with here and there a
lovely green meadow, where herds of cattle were grazing. The third day
we came to the Danube again at Melk, a little city built under the edge
of a steep hill, on whose summit stands the palace-like abbey of the
Benedictine Monks. The old friars must have had a merry life of it, for
the wine-cellar of the abbey furnished the French army 50,000 measures
for several days in succession. The shores of the Danube here are
extremely beautiful. The valley where it spreads out, is filled with
groves, but where the hills approach the stream, its banks are rocky and
precipitous, like the Rhine. Although not so picturesque as the latter
river, the scenery of the Danube is on a grander scale. On the south
side the mountains bend down to it with a majestic sweep, and there
must be delightful glances into the valleys that lie between, in passing
down the current.

But we soon left the river, and journeyed on through the enchanting
inland vales. To give an idea of the glorious enjoyment of traveling
through such scenes, let me copy a leaf out of my journal, written as we
rested at noon on the top of a lofty hill:--"Here, while the delightful
mountain breeze that comes fresh from the Alps cools my forehead, and
the pines around are sighing their eternal anthem, I seize a few moments
to tell what a paradise is around me. I have felt an elevation of mind
and spirit, a perfect rapture from morning till night, since we left
Vienna. It is the brightest and balmiest June weather; an ever fresh
breeze sings through the trees and waves the ripening grain on the
verdant meadows and hill-slopes. The air is filled with bird-music. The
larks sing above us out of sight, the bullfinch wakes his notes in the
grove, and at eve the nightingale pours forth her thrilling strain. The
meadows are literally covered with flowers--beautiful purple salvias,
pinks such as we have at home in our gardens and glowing buttercups,
color the banks of every stream. I never saw richer or more luxuriant
foliage. Magnificent forests clothe the hills, and the villages are
imbedded in fruit trees, shrubbery and flowers. Sometimes we go for
miles through some enchanting valley, lying like a paradise between the
mountains, while the distant, white Alps look on it from afar; sometimes
over swelling ranges of hills, where we can see to the right the valley
of the Danube, threaded by his silver current and dotted with white
cottages and glittering spires, and farther beyond, the blue mountains
of the Bohemian Forest. To the left, the range of the Styrian Alps
stretches along the sky, summit above summit, the farther ones robed in
perpetual snow. I could never tire gazing on those glorious hills. They
fill the soul with a conception of sublimity, such as one feels when
listening to triumphal music. They seem like the marble domes of a
mighty range of temples, where earth worships her Maker with an
organ-anthem of storms!

"There is a _luxury_ in traveling here. We walk all day through such
scenes, resting often in the shade of the fruit trees which line the
road, or on a mossy bank by the side of some cool forest. Sometimes for
enjoyment as well as variety, we make our dining-place by a clear spring
instead of within a smoky tavern; and our simple meals have a relish an
epicure could never attain. Away with your railroads and steamboats and
mail-coaches, or keep them for those who have no eye but for the sordid
interests of life! With my knapsack and pilgrim-staff, I ask not their
aid. If a mind and soul full of rapture with beauty, a frame in glowing
and vigorous health, and slumbers unbroken even by dreams, are blessings
any one would attain, let him pedestrianize it through Lower Austria!"

I have never been so strongly and constantly reminded of America, as
during this journey. Perhaps the balmy season, the same in which I last
looked upon the dear scenes of home, may have its effect; but there is
besides a richness in the forests and waving fields of grain, a wild
luxuriance over every landscape, which I have seen nowhere else in
Europe. The large farm houses, buried in orchards, scattered over the
valleys, add to the effect. Everything seems to speak of happiness and
prosperity.

We were met one morning by a band of wandering Bohemian gipsies--the
first of the kind I ever saw. A young woman with a small child in her
arms came directly up to me, and looking full in my face with her wild
black eyes, said, without any preface: "Yes, he too has met with sorrow
and trouble already, and will still have more. But he is not false--he
is true and sincere, and will also meet with good luck!" She said she
could tell me three numbers with which I should buy a lottery ticket and
win a great prize. I told her I would have nothing to do with the
lottery, and would buy no ticket, but she persisted, saying: "Has he a
twenty kreutzer piece?--will he give it? Lay it in his hand and make a
cross over it, and I will reveal the numbers!" On my refusal, she became
angry, and left me, saying: "Let him take care--the third day something
will happen to him!" An old, wrinkled hag made the same proposition to
my companion with no better success. They reminded me strikingly of our
Indians; their complexion is a dark brown, and their eyes and hair are
black as night. These belonged to a small tribe who wander through the
forests of Bohemia, and support themselves by cheating and stealing.

We stopped the fourth night at Enns, a small city on the river of the
same name, which divides Upper from Lower Austria. After leaving the
beautiful little village where we passed the night before, the road
ascended one of those long ranges of hills, which stretch off from the
Danube towards the Alps. We walked for miles over the broad and uneven
summit, enjoying the enchanting view which opened on both sides. If we
looked to the right, we could trace the windings of the Danube for
twenty miles, his current filled with green, wooded islands; white
cities lie at the foot of the hills, which, covered to the summit with
grain fields and vineyards, extended back one behind another, till the
farthest were lost in the distance. I was glad we had taken the way from
Vienna to Linz by land, for from the heights we had a view of the whole
course of the Danube, enjoying besides, the beauty of the inland vales
and the far-off Styrian Alps. From the hills we passed over we could see
the snowy range as far as the Alps of Salzburg--some of them seemed
robed to the very base in their white mantles. In the morning the
glaciers on their summit glittered like stars; it was the first time I
saw the sun reflected at a hundred miles' distance!

On descending we came into a garden-like plain, over which rose the
towers of Enns, built by the ransom money paid to Austria for the
deliverance of the Lion-hearted Richard. The country legends say that
St. Florian was thrown into the river by the Romans in the third
century, with a millstone around his neck, which, however, held him
above the water like cork, until he had finished preaching them a
sermon. In the villages we often saw his imago painted on the houses, in
the act of pouring a pail of water on a burning building, with the
inscription beneath--"Oh, holy Florian, pray for us!" This was supposed
to be a charm against fire. In Upper Austria, it is customary to erect a
shrine on the road, wherever an accident has happened, with a painting
and description of it, and an admonition to all passers-by to pray for
the soul of the unfortunate person. On one of them, for instance, was a
cart with a wild ox, which a man was holding by the horns; a woman
kneeling by the wheels appeared to be drawing a little girl by the feet
from under it, and the inscription stated: "By calling on Jesus, Mary
and Joseph, the girl was happily rescued." Many of the shrines had
images which the people no doubt, in their ignorance and simplicity,
considered holy, but they were to us impious and almost blasphemous.

From Enns a morning's walk brought us to Linz. The peasant girls in
their broad straw hats were weeding the young wheat, looking as cheerful
and contented as the larks that sung above them. A mile or two from Linz
we passed one or two of the round towers belonging to the new
fortifications of the city. As walls have grown out of fashion, Duke
Maximilian substituted an invention of his own. The city is surrounded
by thirty two towers, one to three miles distant from it, and so placed
that they form a complete line of communication and defence. They are
sunk in the earth, surrounded with a ditch and embankments, and each is
capable of containing ten cannon and three hundred men. The pointed
roofs of these towers are seen on all the hills around. We were obliged
to give up our passports at the barrier, the officer telling us to call
for them in three hours at the City Police Office; we spent the
intervening time very agreeably in rambling through this gay,
cheerful-looking town. With its gilded spires and ornamented houses,
with their green lattice blinds, it reminds one strongly of Italy, or at
least, of what Italy is said to be. It has now quite an active and
business-like aspect, occasioned by the steamboat and railroad lines
which connect it with Vienna, Prague, Ratisbon and Salzburg. Although we
had not exceeded our daily allowance by more than a few kreutzers, we
found that twenty days would be hardly sufficient to accomplish the
journey, and our funds must therefore be replenished. Accordingly I
wrote from Linz to Frankfort, directing a small sum to be forwarded to
Munich, which city we hoped to reach in eight days.

We took the horse cars at Linz for Lambach, seventeen miles on the way
towards Gmunden. The mountains were covered with clouds as we approached
them, and the storms they had been brewing for two or three days began
to march down on the plain. They had nearly reached us, when we crossed
the Traun and arrived at Lambach, a small city built upon a hill. We
left the next day at noon, and on ascending the hill after crossing the
Traun, had an opportunity of seeing the portrait on the Traunstein, of
which the old landlord told us. I saw it at the first glance--certainly
it is a most remarkable freak of nature. The rough back of the mountain
forms the exact profile of the human countenance, as if regularly hewn
out of the rock. What is still more singular, it is said to be a correct
portrait of the unfortunate Louis XVI. The landlord said it was
immediately recognized by all Frenchmen. The road followed the course of
the Traun, whose green waters roared at the bottom of the glen below us;
we walked for several miles through a fine forest, through whose
openings we caught glimpses of the mountains we longed to reach.

The river roared at last somewhat louder, and on looking down the bank,
I saw rocks and rapids, and a few houses built on the edge of the
stream. Thinking it must be near the fall, we went down the path, and
lo! on crossing a little wooden bridge, the whole affair burst in sight!
Judge of our surprise at finding a fall of fifteen feet, after we had
been led to expect a tremendous leap of forty or fifty, with all the
accompaniment of rocks and precipices. Of course the whole descent of
the river at the place was much greater, and there were some romantic
cascades over the rocks which blocked its course. Its greatest beauty
consisted in the color of the water--the brilliant green of the waves
being broken into foam of the most dazzling white--and the great force
with which it is thrown below.

The Traunstein grew higher as we approached, presenting the same profile
till we had nearly reached Gmunden. From the green upland meadows above
the town, the view of the mountain range was glorious, and I could
easily conceive the effect of the Unknown Student's appeal to the people
to fight for those free hills. I think it is Howitt who relates the
incident--one of the most romantic in German history. Count Pappenheim
led his forces here in the year 1626, to suppress a revolution of the
people of the whole Salzburg region, who had risen against an invasion
of their rights by the Austrian government. The battle which took place
on these meadows was about being decided in favor of the oppressors,
when a young man, clad as a student, suddenly appeared and addressed the
people, pointing to the Alps above them and the sweet lake below, and
asking if that land should not be free. The effect was electrical; they
returned to the charge and drove back the troops of Pappenheim, who were
about taking to flight, when the unknown leader fell, mortally wounded.
This struck a sudden panic through his followers, and the Austrians
turning again, gained a complete victory. But the name of the brave
student is unknown, his deed unsung by his country's bards, and almost
forgotten.




CHAPTER XXIV.

THE UNKNOWN STUDENT.


    Ha! spears on Gmunden's meadows green,
      And banners on the wood-crowned height!
    Rank after rank, their helmets' sheen
      Sends back the morning light!
    Where late the mountain maiden sang,
    The battle-trumpet's brazen clang
      Vibrates along the air;
    And wild dragoons wheel o'er the plain.
    Trampling to earth the yellow grain,
    From which no more the merry swain
      His harvest sheaves shall bear.

    The eagle, in his sweep at morn,
      To meet the monarch-sun on high,
    Heard the unwonted warrior's horn
      Peal faintly up the sky!
    He saw the foemen, moving slow
    In serried legions, far below,
      Against that peasant-band,
    Who dared to break the tyrant's thrall
    And by the sword of Austria fall,
    Or keep the ancient Right of all,
      Held by their mountain-land;

    They came to meet that mail-clad host
      From glen and wood and ripening field;
    A brave, stout arm, each man could boast--
      A soul, unused to yield!
    They met: a shout, prolonged and loud,
    Went hovering upward with the cloud
      That closed around them dun;
    Blade upon blade unceasing clashed,
    Spears in the onset shivering crashed,
    And the red glare of cannon flashed
      Athwart the smoky sun!

    The mountain warriors wavered back,
      Borne down by myriads of the foe,
    Like pines before the torrent's track
      When spring has warmed the snow.
    Shall Faith and Freedom vainly call,
    And Gmunden's warrior-herdsmen fall
      On the red field in vain?
    No! from the throng that back retired,
    A student boy sprang forth inspired,
    And while his words their bosoms fired,
      Led on the charge again!

    "And thus your free arms would ye give
      So tamely to a tyrant's band,
    And with the hearts of vassals live
      In this, your chainless land?
    The emerald lake is spread below,
    And tower above, the hills of snow--
      Here, field and forest lie;
    This land, so glorious and so free--
    Say, shall it crushed and trodden be?
    Say, would ye rather bend the knee
      Than for its freedom die?

    "Look! yonder stand in mid-day's glare
      The everlasting Alps of snow,
    And from their peaks a purer air
      Breathes o'er the vales below!
    The Traun his brow is bent in pride--
    He brooks no craven on his side--
      Would ye be fettered then?
    There lifts the Sonnenstein his head,
    There chafes the Traun his rocky bed
    And Aurach's lovely vale is spread--
      Look on them and be men!

    "Let, like a trumpet's sound of fire,
      _These_ stir your souls to manhood's part--
    The glory of the Alps inspire
      Each yet unconquered heart!
    For, through their unpolluted air
    Soars fresher up the grateful prayer
      From freemen, unto God;--
    A blessing on those mountains old!
    On to the combat, brethren bold!
    Strike, that ye free the valleys hold,
      Where free your fathers trod!"

    And like a mighty storm that tears
      The icy avalanche from its bed,
    They rushed against th' opposing spears--
      The student at their head!
    The bands of Austria fought in vain;
    A bloodier harvest heaped the plain
      At every charge they made;
    Each herdsman was a hero then--
    The mountain hunters stood like men,
    And echoed from the farthest glen
      The clash of blade on blade!

    The banner in the student's hand
      Waved triumph from the fight before;
    What terror seized the conq'ring band?--
      It fell, to rise no more!
    And with it died the lofty flame,
    That from his lips in lightning came
      And burned upon their own;
    Dread Pappenheim led back the foe,
    The mountain peasants yielded slow,
    And plain above and lake below
      Were red when evening shone!

    Now many a year has passed away
      Since battle's blast rolled o'er the plain,
    The Alps are bright in morning's ray--
      The Traunstein smiles again.
    But underneath the flowery sod,
    By happy peasant children trod,
      A hero's ashes lay.
    O'er him no grateful nation wept,
    Fame, of his deed no record kept,
    And dull Forgetfulness hath swept
      His very name away!

    In many a grave, by poets sung,
      There falls to dust a lofty brow,
    But he alone, the brave and young,
      Sleeps there forgotten now.
    The Alps upon that field look down,
    Which won his bright and brief renown,
       Beside the lake's green shore;
    Still wears the land a tyrant's chain--
    Still bondmen tread the battle-plain,
    Culled by his glorious soul in vain
      To win their rights of yore.




CHAPTER XXV.

THE AUSTRIAN ALPS.


It was nearly dark when we came to the end of the plain and looked on
the city at our feet and the lovely lake that lost itself in the
mountains before us. We were early on board the steamboat next morning,
with a cloudless sky above us and a snow-crested Alp beckoning on from
the end of the lake. The water was of the most beautiful green hue, the
morning light colored the peaks around with purple, and a misty veil
rolled up the rocks of the Traunstein. We stood on the prow and enjoyed
to the fullest extent the enchanting scenery. The white houses of
Gmunden sank down to the water's edge like a flock of ducks; halfway we
passed castle Ort, on a rock in the lake, whose summit is covered with
trees.

As we neared the other extremity, the mountains became steeper and
loftier; there was no path along their wild sides, nor even a fisher's
hut nestled at their feet, and the snow filled the ravines more than
half-way from the summit. An hour and a quarter brought us to Ebensee,
at the head of the lake, where we landed and plodded on towards Ischl,
following the Traun up a narrow valley, whose mountain walls shut out
more than half the sky. They are covered with forests, and the country
is inhabited entirely by the woodmen who fell the mountain pines and
float the timber rafts down to the Danube. The steeps are marked with
white lines, where the trees have been rolled, or rather _thrown_ from
the summit. Often they descend several miles over rooks and precipices,
where the least deviation from the track would dash them in a thousand
pieces. This generally takes place in the winter when the sides are
covered with snow and ice. It must be a dangerous business, for there
are many crosses by the way-side where the pictures represent persons
accidentally killed by the trees; an additional painting represents
them as burning in the flames of purgatory, and the pious traveler is
requested to pray an Ave or a Paternoster for the repose of their souls.

On we went, up the valley of the Traun, between mountains five and six
thousand feet high, through scenes constantly changing and constantly
grand, for three or four hours. Finally the hills opened, disclosing a
little triangular valley, whose base was formed by a mighty mountain
covered with clouds. Through the two side angles came the Traun and his
tributary the Ischl, while the little town of Ischl lay in the centre.
Within a few years this has become a very fashionable bathing place, and
the influx of rich visitors, which in the summer sometimes amounts to
two thousand, has entirely destroyed the primitive simplicity the
inhabitants originally possessed. From Ischl we took a road through the
forests to St. Wolfgang, on the lake of the same name. The last part of
the way led along the banks of the lake, disclosing some delicious
views. These Alpine lakes surpass any scenery I have yet seen. The water
is of the most beautiful green, like a sheet of molten beryl, and the
cloud-piercing mountains that encompass them shut out the sun for nearly
half the day. St. Wolfgang is a lovely village in a cool and quiet nook
at the foot of the Schafberg. The houses tire built in the picturesque
Swiss style, with flat, projecting roofs and ornamented balconies, and
the people are the very picture of neatness and cheerfulness.

We started next morning to ascend the Schafberg, which is called the
Righi of the Austrian Switzerland. It is somewhat higher than its Swiss
namesake, and commands a prospect scarcely less extensive or grand. We
followed a footpath through the thick forest by the side of a roaring
torrent. The morning mist still covered the lake, but the white summits
of the Salzburg and Noric Alps opposite us, rose above it and stood pure
and bright in the upper air. We passed a little mill and one or two
cottages, and then wound round one of the lesser heights into a deep
ravine, down in whose dark shadow we sometimes heard the axe and saw of
the mountain woodmen. Finally the path disappeared altogether under a
mass of logs and rocks, which appeared to have been whirled together by
a sudden flood. We deliberated what to do; the summit rose several
thousand feet above us, almost precipitously steep, but we did not like
to turn back, and there was still a hope of meeting with the path again.
Clambering over the ruins and rubbish we pulled ourselves by the limbs
of trees up a steep ascent and descended again to the stream. We here
saw the ravine was closed by a wall of rock and our only chance was to
cross to the west side of the mountain, where the ascent seemed somewhat
easier. A couple of mountain maidens whom we fortunately met, carrying
home grass for their goats, told us the mountain could be ascended on
that side, by one who could climb _well_--laying a strong emphasis on
the word. The very doubt implied in this expression was enough to decide
us; so we began the work. And work it was, too! The side was very steep,
the trees all leaned downwards, and we slipped at every step on the dry
leaves and grass. After making a short distance this way with the
greatest labor, we came to the track of an avalanche, which had swept
away the trees and earth. Here the rock had been worn rough by torrents,
but by using both hands and feet, we clomb directly up the side of the
mountain, sometimes dragging ourselves up by the branches of trees where
the rocks were smooth. After half an hour of such work we came above the
forests, on the bare side of the mountain. The summit was far above us
and so steep that our limbs involuntarily shrunk from the task of
climbing. The side ran up at an angle of nearly sixty degrees, and the
least slip threw us flat on our faces. We had to use both hand and foot,
and were obliged to rest every few minutes to recover breath.
Crimson-flowered moss and bright blue gentians covered the rocks, and I
filled my books with blossoms for friends at home.

Up and up, for what seemed an age, we clambered. So steep was it, that
the least rocky projection hid my friend from sight, as he was coming up
below me. I let stones roll sometimes, which went down, down, almost
like a cannonball, till I could see them no more. At length we reached
the region of dwarf pines, which was even more difficult to pass
through. Although the mountain was not so steep, this forest, centuries
old, reached no higher than our breasts, and the trees leaned downwards,
so that we were obliged to take hold of the tops of those above us, and
drag ourselves up through the others. Here and there lay large patches
of snow; we sat down in the glowing June sun, and bathed our hands and
faces in it. Finally the sky became bluer and broader, the clouds seemed
nearer, and a few more steps through the bushes brought us to the summit
of the mountain, on the edge of a precipice a thousand feet deep, whose
bottom stood in a vast field of snow!

We lay down on the heather, exhausted by five hours' incessant toil, and
drank in like a refreshing draught, the sublimity of the scene, The
green lakes of the Salzburg Alps lay far below us, and the whole
southern horizon was filled with the mighty range of the Styrian and
Noric Alps, their summits of never-melting snow mingling and blending
with the clouds. On the other side the mountains of Salzburg lifted
their ridgy backs from the plains of Bavaria and the Chiem lake lay
spread out in the blue distance. A line of mist far to the north
betrayed the path of the Danube, and beyond it we could barely trace the
outline of the Bohemian mountains. With a glass the spires of Munich,
one hundred and twenty miles distant, can be seen. It was a view whose
grandeur I can never forget. In that dome of the cloud we seemed to
breathe a purer air than that of earth.

After an hour or two, we began to think of descending, as the path was
yet to be found. The summit, which was a mile or more in length,
extended farther westward, and by climbing over the dwarf pines for some
time, we saw a little wooden house above us. It stood near the highest
part of the peak, and two or three men were engaged in repairing it, as
a shelter for travelers. They pointed out the path which went down on
the side toward St. Gilgen, and we began descending. The mountain on
this side is much less steep, but the descent is fatiguing enough. The
path led along the side of a glen where mountain goats were grazing, and
further down we saw cattle feeding on the little spots of verdure which
lay in the forest. My knees became so weak from this continued descent,
that they would scarcely support me; but we were three hours, partly
walking and partly running down, before we reached the bottom. Half an
hour's walk around the head of the St. Wolfgang See, brought us to the
little village of St. Gilgen.

The valley of St. Gilgen lies like a little paradise between the
mountains. Lovely green fields and woods slope gradually from the
mountain behind, to the still greener lake spread out before it, in
whose bosom the white Alps are mirrored. Its picturesque cottages
cluster around the neat church with its lofty spire, and the simple
inhabitants have countenances as bright and cheerful as the blue sky
above them. We breathed an air of poetry. The Arcadian simplicity of the
people, the pastoral beauty of the fields around and the grandeur of the
mountains which shut it out from the world, realized my ideas of a
dwelling place, where, with a few kindred spirits, the bliss of Eden
might almost be restored.

We stopped there two or three hours to relieve our hunger and fatigue.
My boots had suffered severely in our mountain adventure, and I called
at a shoemaker's cottage to get them repaired. I sat down and talked for
half an hour with the family. The man and his wife spoke of the
delightful scenery around them, and expressed themselves with
correctness and even elegance. They were much pleased that I admired
their village so greatly, and related every thing which they supposed
could interest me. As I rose to go, my head nearly touched the ceiling,
which was very low. The man exclaimed: "Ach Gott! how tall!" I told him
the people were all tall in our country; he then asked where I came
from, and I had no sooner said America, than he threw up his hands and
uttered an ejaculation of the greatest surprise. His wife observed that
"it was wonderful how far man was permitted to travel." They wished me a
prosperous journey and a safe return home.

St. Gilgen was also interesting to me from that beautiful chapter in
"Hyperion"--"Footsteps of Angels,"--and on passing the church on my way
back to the inn, I entered the graveyard mentioned in it. The green turf
grows thickly over the rows of mounds, with here and there a rose
planted by the hand of affection, and the white crosses were hung with
wreaths, some of which had been freshly laid on. Behind the church,
under the shade of a tree, stood a small chapel,--I opened the
unfastened door, and entered. The afternoon sun shone through the side
window, and all was still around. A little shrine, adorned with flowers,
stood at the other end, and there were two tablets on the wall, to
persons who slumbered beneath, I approached these and read on one of
them with feelings not easily described: "Look not mournfully into the
past--it comes not again; wisely improve the present--it is thine; and
go forward to meet the shadowy future, without fear, and with a manly
heart!" This then was the spot where Paul Flemming came in loneliness
and sorrow to muse over what he had lost, and these were the words whose
truth and eloquence strengthened and consoled him, "as if the unknown
tenant of the grave had opened his lips of dust and spoken those words
of consolation his soul needed." I sat down and mused a long time, for
there was something in the silent holiness of the spot, that impressed
me more than I could well describe.

We reached a little village on the Fuschel See, the same evening, and
set off the next morning for Salzburg. The day was hot and we walked
slowly, so that it was not till two o'clock that we saw the castellated
rocks on the side of the Gaissberg, guarding the entrance to the valley
of Salzburg. A short distance further, the whole glorious panorama was
spread out below us. From the height on which we stood, we looked
directly on the summit of the Capuchin Mountain, which hid part of the
city from sight; the double peak of the Staufen rose opposite, and a
heavy storm was raging along the Alpine heights around it, while the
lovely valley lay in sunshine below, threaded by the bright current of
the Salza. As we descended and passed around the foot of the hill, the
Untersberg came in sight, whose broad summits lift themselves seven
thousand feet above the plain. The legend says that Charlemagne and his
warriors sit in its subterraneous caverns in complete armor, and that
they will arise and come forth again, when Germany recovers her former
power and glory.

I wish I could convey in words some idea of the elevation of spirit
experienced while looking on these eternal mountains. They fill the soul
with a sensation of power and grandeur which frees it awhile from the
cramps and fetters of common life. It rises and expands to the level of
their sublimity, till its thoughts stand solemnly aloft, like their
summits, piercing the free heaven. Their dazzling and imperishable
beauty is to the mind an image of its own enduring existence. When I
stand upon some snowy summit--the invisible apex of that mighty
pyramid--there seems a majesty in my weak will which might defy the
elements. This sense of power, inspired by a silent sympathy with the
forms of nature, is beautifully described--as shown in the free,
unconscious instincts of childhood--by the poet Uhland, in his ballad of
the "Mountain Boy." I have attempted a translation.

    THE MOUNTAIN BOY.

    A herd-boy on the mountain's brow,
    I see the castles all below.
    The sunbeam here is earliest cast
    And by my side it lingers last--
       I am the boy of the mountain!

    The mother-house of streams is here--
    I drink them in their cradles clear;
    From out the rock they foam below,
    I spring to catch them as they go!
       I am the boy of the mountain!

    To me belongs the mountain's bound,
    Where gathering tempests march around;
    But though from north and south they shout,
    Above them still my song rings out--
       "I am the boy of the mountain!"

    Below me clouds and thunders move;
    I stand amid the blue above.
    I shout to them with fearless breast:
    "Go, leave my father's house in rest!"
       I am the boy of the mountain!

    And when the loud bell shakes the spires
    And flame aloft the signal-fires,
    I go below and join the throng
    And swing my sword and sing my song:
       "I am the boy of the mountain!"

Salzburg lies on both sides of the Salza, hemmed in on either hand by
precipitous mountains. A large fortress overlooks it on the south, from
the summit of a perpendicular rock, against which the houses in that
part of the city arc built. The streets are narrow and crooked, but the
newer part contains many open squares, adorned with handsome fountains.
The variety of costume among the people, is very interesting. The
inhabitants of the salt district have a peculiar dress; the women wear
round fur caps, with little wings of gauze at the side. I saw other
women with headdresses of gold or silver filagree, something in shape
like a Roman helmet, with a projection at the back of the head, a foot
long. The most interesting objects in Salzburg to us, were the house of
Mozart, in which the composer was born, and the monument lately erected
to him. The St. Peter's Church, near by, contains the tomb of Haydn, the
great composer, and the Church of St. Sebastian, that of the renowned
Paracelsus, who was also a native of Salzburg.

Two or three hours sufficed to see every thing of interest in the city.
We had intended lo go further through the Alps, to the beautiful vales
of the Tyrol, but our time was getting short, our boots, which are the
pedestrian's _sole_ dependence, began to show symptoms of wearing out,
and our expenses among the lakes and mountains of Upper Austria, left us
but two florins apiece, so we reluctantly turned our backs upon the
snowy hills and set out for Munich, ninety miles distant. After passing
the night at Saalbruck, on the banks of the stream which separates the
two kingdoms, we entered Bavaria next morning. I could not help feeling
glad to leave Austria, although within her bounds I had passed scones
whose beauty will long haunt me, and met with many honest friendly
hearts among her people. We noticed a change as soon as we had crossed
the border. The roads were neater and handsomer, and the country people
greeted us in going by, with a friendly cheerfulness that made us feel
half at home. The houses are built in the picturesque Swiss fashion,
their balconies often ornamented with curious figures, carved in wood.
Many of them, where they are situated remote from a church, have a
little bell on the roof which they ring for morning and evening prayers;
we often heard these simple monitors sounding from the cottages as we
passed by.

The next night we stopped at the little village of Stein, famous in
former times for its robber-knight, Hans von Stein. The ruins of his
castle stand on the rock above, and the caverns hewn in the sides of the
precipice, where he used to confine his prisoners, are still visible.
Walking on through a pleasant, well-cultivated country, we came to
Wasserburg, on the Inn. The situation of the city is peculiar. The Inn
has gradually worn his channel deeper in the sandy soil, so that he now
flows at the bottom of a glen, a hundred feet below the plains around.
Wasserburg lies in a basin, formed by the change of the current, which
flows around it like a horseshoe, leaving only a narrow neck of land
which connects it with the country above.

We left the little village where we were quartered for the night and
took a foot path which led across the country to the field of
Hohenlinden, about six miles distant. The name had been familiar to me
from childhood, and my love for Campbell, with the recollection of the
school-exhibitions where "On Linden when the sun was low" had been so
often declaimed, induced me to make the excursion to it. We traversed a
large forest, belonging to the King of Bavaria, and came out on a plain
covered with grain fields and bounded on the right by a semi-circle of
low hills. Over the fields, about two miles distant, a tall,
minaret-like spire rose from a small cluster of houses, and this was
Hohenlinden! To tell the truth, I had been expecting something more. The
"hills of blood-stained snow" are very small hills indeed, and the
"Isar, rolling rapidly," is several miles off; it was the spot, however,
and we recited Campbell's poem, of course, and brought away a few wild
flowers as memorials. There is no monument or any other token of the
battle, and the people seem to endeavor to forget the scene of Moreau's
victory and their defeat.

From a hill twelve miles off we had our first view of the spires of
Munich, looking like distant ships over the sea-like plain. They kept in
sight till we arrived at eight o'clock in the evening, after a walk of
more than thirty miles. We crossed the rapid Isar on three bridges,
entered the magnificent Isar Gate, and were soon comfortably quartered
in the heart of Munich.

Entering the city without knowing a single soul within it, we made
within a few minutes an agreeable acquaintance. After we passed the
Isar Gate, we began looking for a decent inn, for the day's walk was
very fatiguing. Presently a young man, who had been watching us for some
time, came up and said, if we would allow him, he would conduct us to a
good lodging-place. Finding we were strangers, he expressed the greatest
regret that he had not time to go with us every day around the city. Our
surprise and delight at the splendor of Munich, he said, would more than
repay him for the trouble. In his anxiety to show us something, he took
us some distance out of the way, (although it was growing dark and we
were very tired,) to see the Palace and the Theatre, with its front of
rich frescoes.

END OF PART I.






        VIEWS A-FOOT; OR EUROPE SEEN WITH KNAPSACK AND STAFF.

                         BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

                    WITH A PREFACE BY N.P. WILLIS.



                 "Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
                    And merrily hent the stile-a;
                   A merry heart goes all the day,
                     Your sad tires in a mile-a."

                                      _Winter's Tale._



                            IN TWO PARTS.

                               PART II.





CHAPTER XXVI.

MUNICH.


_June 14._--I thought I had seen every thing in Vienna that could excite
admiration or gratify fancy; here I have my former sensations to live
over again, in an augmented degree. It is well I was at first somewhat
prepared by our previous travel, otherwise the glare and splendor of
wealth and art in this German Athens might blind me to the beauties of
the cities we shall yet visit. I have been walking in a dream where the
fairy tales of boyhood were realized, and the golden and jeweled halls
of the Eastern genii rose glittering around me--"a vision of the brain
no more." All I had conceived of oriental magnificence, all descriptions
of the splendor of kingly halls and palaces, fall far short of what I
here see. Where shall I begin to describe the crowd of splendid edifices
that line its streets, or how give an idea of the profusion of paintings
and statues--of marble, jasper and gold?

Art has done every thing for Munich. It lies on a large, flat plain,
sixteen hundred feet above the sea, and continually exposed to the cold
winds from the Alps. At the beginning of the present century it was but
a third-rate city, and was rarely visited by foreigners. Since that time
its population and limits have been doubled, and magnificent edifices in
every style of architecture erected, rendering it scarcely secondary in
this respect to any capital in Europe. Every art that wealth or taste
could devise, seems to have been spent in its decoration. Broad,
spacious streets and squares have been laid out, churches, halls and
colleges erected, and schools of painting and sculpture established,
which draw artists from all parts of the world. All this was principally
brought about by the taste of the present king, Ludwig I., who began
twenty or thirty years ago, when he was Crown Prince, to collect the
best German artists around him and form plans for the execution of his
grand design. He can boast of having done more for the arts than any
other living monarch, and if he had accomplished it all without
oppressing his people, he would deserve an immortality of fame.

Now, if you have nothing else to do, let us take a stroll down the
Ludwigstrasse. As we pass the Theatiner Church, with its dome and
towers, the broad street opens before us, stretching away to the north,
between rows of magnificent buildings. Just at this southern end, is the
_Schlusshalle_, an open temple of white marble terminating the avenue.
To the right of us extend the arcades, with the trees of the Royal
Garden peeping above them; on the left is the spacious concert building
of the Odeon, and the palace of the Duke of Leuchtenberg, son of Eugene
Beauharnois. Passing through a row of palace-like private buildings, we
come to the Army Department, on the right--a neat and tasteful building
of white sandstone. Beside it stands the Library, which possesses the
first special claim on our admiration. With its splendid front of five
hundred and eighteen feet, the yellowish brown cement with which the
body is covered, making an agreeable contrast with the dark red
window-arches and cornices, and the statues of Homer, Hippocrates,
Thucydides and Aristotle guarding the portal, is it not a worthy
receptacle for the treasures of ancient and modern lore which its halls
contain?

Nearly opposite stands the Institute for the Blind, a plain but large
building of dark red brick, covered with cement, and further, the
Ludwig's Kirche, or Church of St. Louis. How lightly the two square
towers of gray marble lift their network of sculpture! And what a novel
and beautiful effect is produced by uniting the Byzantine style of
architecture to the form of the Latin cross! Over the arched portal
stand marble statues by Schwanthaler, and the roof of brilliant tiles
worked into mosaic, looks like a rich Turkey carpet covering the whole.
We must enter to get an idea of the splendor of this church. Instead of
the pointed arch which one would expect to see meeting above his head,
the lofty pillars on each side bear an unbroken semicircular vault,
which is painted a brilliant blue, and spangled with silver stars. These
pillars, and the little arches above, which spring from them, are
painted in an arabesque style with gold and brilliant colors, and each
side-chapel is a perfect casket of richness and elegance. The windows
are of silvered glass, through which the light glimmers softly on the
splendor within. The whole end of the church behind the high altar, is
taken up with Cornelius's celebrated fresco painting of the "Last
Judgment,"--the largest painting in the world--and the circular dome in
the centre of the cross contains groups of martyrs, prophets, saints and
kings, painted in fresco on a ground of gold. The work of Cornelius has
been greatly praised for sublimity of design and beauty of execution, by
many acknowledged judges; I was disappointed in it, but the fault lay
most probably in me and not in the painting. The richness and elegance
of the church took me all "aback;" it was so entirely different from
anything I had seen, that it was difficult to decide whether I was most
charmed by its novelty or its beauty. Still, as a building designed to
excite feelings of worship, it seems to me inappropriate. A vast, dim
Cathedral would be far preferable; the devout, humble heart cannot feel
at home amid such glare and brightness.

As we leave the church and walk further on, the street expands suddenly
into a broad square. One side is formed by the new University building
and the other by the Royal Seminary, both displaying in their
architecture new forms of the graceful Byzantine school, which the
architects of Munich have adapted in a striking manner to so many varied
purposes. On each side stands a splendid colossal fountain of bronze,
throwing up a great mass of water, which falls in a triple cataract to
the marble basin below. A short distance beyond this square the
Ludwigstrasse terminates. It is said the end will be closed by a
magnificent gate, on a style to correspond with the unequalled avenue to
which it will give entrance. To one standing at the southern end, it
would form a proper termination to the grand vista. Before we leave,
turn around and glance back, down this street, which extends for half a
mile between such buildings as we have just viewed, and tell me if it is
not something of which a city and a king may boast, to have created all
this within less than twenty years!

We went one morning to see the collection of paintings formerly
belonging to Eugene Beauharnois, who was brother-in-law to the present
king of Bavaria, in the palace of his son, the Duke of Leuchtenberg. The
first hall contains works principally by French artists, among which are
two by Gerard--a beautiful portrait of Josephine, and the blind
Belisarius carrying his dead companion. The boy's head lies on the old
man's shoulder; but for the livid paleness of his limbs, he would seem
to be only asleep, while a deep and settled sorrow marks the venerable
features of the unfortunate Emperor. In the middle of the room are six
pieces of statuary, among which Canova's world-renowned group of the
Graces at once attracts the eye. There is also a kneeling Magdalen,
lovely in her woe, by the same sculptor, and a very touching work of
Schadow, representing a shepherd boy tenderly binding his sash around a
lamb which he has accidentally wounded with his arrow.

We have since seen in the St. Michael's Church, the monument to Eugene
Beauharnois, from the chisel of Thorwaldsen. The noble, manly figure of
the son of Josephine is represented in the Roman mantle, with his helmet
and sword lying on the ground by him. On one side sits History, writing
on a tablet; on the other, stand the two brother-angels, Death and
Immortality. They lean lovingly together, with arms around each other,
but the sweet countenance of Death has a cast of sorrow, as he stands
with inverted torch and a wreath of poppies among his clustering locks.
Immortality, crowned with never-fading flowers, looks upwards with a
smile of triumph, and holds in one hand his blazing torch. It is a
beautiful idea, and Thorwaldsen has made the marble eloquent with
feeling.

The inside of the square formed by the Arcades and the New Residence, is
filled with noble old trees, which in summer make a leafy roof over the
pleasant walks. In the middle, stands a grotto, ornamented with rough
pebbles and shells, and only needing a fountain to make it a perfect
hall of Neptune. Passing through the northern Arcade, one comes into the
magnificent park, called the English Garden, which extends more than
four miles along the bank of the Isar, several branches of whose milky
current wander through it, and form one or two pretty cascades. It is a
beautiful alternation of forest and meadow, and has all the richness and
garden-like luxuriance of English scenery. Winding walks lead along the
Isar, or through the wood of venerable oaks, and sometimes a lawn of
half a mile in length, with a picturesque temple at its further end,
comes in sight through the trees. I was better pleased with this park
than with the Prater in Vienna. Its paths are always filled with persons
enjoying the change from the dusty streets to its quiet and cool
retirement.

The New Residence is not only one of the wonders of Munich, but of the
world. Although commenced in 1826 and carried on constantly since that
time by a number of architects, sculptors and painters, it is not yet
finished; if art were not inexhaustible it would be difficult to imagine
what more could be added. The north side of the Max Joseph Platz is
taken up by its front of four hundred and thirty feet, which was nine
years in building, under the direction of the architect Klenze. The
exterior is copied after the Palazzo Pitti, in Florence. The building is
of light brown sandstone, and combines an elegance and even splendor,
with the most chaste and classic style. The northern front, which faces
on the Royal Garden, is now nearly finished. It has the enormous length
of eight hundred feet; in the middle is a portico of ten Ionic columns;
instead of supporting a triangular facade, each pillar stands separate
and bears a marble statue from the chisel of Schwanthaler.

The interior of the building does not disappoint the promise of the
outside. It is open every afternoon in the absence of the king, for the
inspection of visitors; fortunately for us, his majesty is at present on
a journey through his provinces on the Rhine. We went early to the
waiting hall, where several travelers were already assembled, and at
four o'clock, were admitted into the newer part of the palace,
containing the throne hall, ballroom, etc. On entering the first hall,
designed for the lackeys and royal servants, we were all obliged to
thrust our feet into cloth slippers to walk over the polished mosaic
floor. The walls are of scagliola marble and the ceilings ornamented
brilliantly in fresco. The second hall, also for servants, gives tokens
of increasing splendor in the richer decorations of the walls and the
more elaborate mosaic of the floor. We next entered the receiving
saloon, in which the Court Marshal receives the guests. The ceiling is
of arabesque sculpture, profusely painted and gilded. Passing through a
little cabinet, we entered the great dancing saloon. Its floor is the
richest mosaic of wood of different colors, the sides are of polished
scagliola marble, and the ceiling a dazzling mixture of sculpture,
painting and gold. At one end is a gallery for the orchestra, supported
by six columns of variegated marble, above which are six dancing nymphs,
painted so beautifully that they appear like living creatures. Every
decoration which could be devised has been used to heighten its
splendor, and the artists appear to have made free use of the Arabian
Nights in forming the plan.

We entered next two smaller rooms containing the portraits of beautiful
women, principally from the German nobility. I gave the preference to
the daughter of Marco Bozzaris, now maid of honor to the Queen of
Greece. She had a wild dark eye, a beautiful proud lip, and her rich
black hair rolled in glossy waves down her neck from under the red
Grecian cap stuck jauntily on the side of her head. She wore a scarf and
close-fitting vest embroidered with gold, and there was a free, lofty
spirit in her countenance worthy the name she bore. These pictures form
a gallery of beauty, whose equal cannot easily be found.

Returning to the dancing hall, we entered the dining saloon, also called
the Hall of Charlemagne. Each wall has two magnificent fresco paintings
of very large size, representing some event in the life of the great
emperor, beginning with his anointing at St. Deny's as a boy of twelve
years, and ending with his coronation by Leo III. A second dining
saloon, the Hall of Barbarossa, adjoins the first. It has also eight
frescoes as the former, representing the principal events in the life of
Frederic Barbarossa. Then comes a _third_, called the Hapsburg Hall,
with four grand paintings from the life of Rudolph of Hapsburg, and a
triumphal procession along the frieze, showing the improvement in the
arts and sciences which was accomplished under his reign. The drawing,
composition and rich tone of coloring of these glorious frescoes, are
scarcely excelled by any in existence.

Finally we entered the Hall of the Throne. Here the encaustic
decoration, so plentifully employed in the other rooms, is dropped, and
an effect even more brilliant obtained by the united use of marble and
gold. Picture a long hall with a floor of polished marble, on each side
twelve columns of white marble with gilded capitals, between which stand
colossal statues of gold. At the other end is the throne of gold and
crimson, with gorgeous hangings of crimson velvet. The twelve statues in
the hall are called the "Wittlesbach Ancestors," and represent renowned
members of the house of Wittlesbach from which the present family of
Bavaria is descended. They were cast in bronze by Stiglmaier, after the
models of Schwanthaler, and then completely covered with a coating of
gold, so that they resemble solid golden statues. The value of the
precious metal on each one is about $3,000, as they arc nine feet in
height! What would the politicians who made such an outcry about the new
papering of the President's House, say to such a palace as this?

Going back to the starting point, we went to the other wing of the
edifice and joined the party who came to visit the apartments of the
king. Here we were led through two or three rooms, appropriated to the
servants, with all the splendor of marble doors, floors of mosaic, and
frescoed ceilings. From these we entered the king's dwelling. The
entrance halls are decorated with paintings of the Argonauts and
illustrations of the Hymns of Hesiod, after drawings by Schwanthaler.
Then came the Service Hall, containing frescoes illustrating Homer, by
Schnorr, and the Throne Hall, with Schwanthaler's bas-reliefs of the
songs of Pindar, on a ground of gold. The throne stands under a splendid
crimson canopy. The Dining Room with its floor of polished wood is
filled with illustrations of the songs of Anacreon. To these follow the
Dressing Room, with twenty-seven illustrations of the Comedies of
Aristophanes, and the sleeping chamber with frescoes after the poems of
Theocritus, and two beautiful bas-reliefs representing angels bearing
children to Heaven. It is no wonder the King writes poetry, when he
breathes, eats, and even sleeps in an atmosphere of it.

We were shown the rooms for the private parties of the Court, the
school-room, with scenes from the life of the Ancient Greeks, and then
conducted down the marble staircases to the lower story, which is to
contain Schnorr's magnificent frescoes of the Nibelungen Lied--the old
German Iliad. Two halls are at present finished; the first has the
figure of the author, Heinrich von Ofterdingen, and those of
Chriemhilde, Brunhilde, Siegfried and the other personages of the poem;
and the second, called the Marriage Hall, contains the marriage of
Chriemhilde and Siegfried, and the triumphal entry of Siegfried into
Worms.

Adjoining the new residence on the east, is the Royal Chapel, lately
finished in the Byzantine style, under the direction of Klenze. To enter
it, is like stepping into a casket of jewels. The sides are formed by a
double range of arches, the windows being so far back as to be almost
out of sight, so that the eye falls on nothing but painting and gold.
The lower row of arches is of alternate green and purple marble,
beautifully polished; but the upper, as well as the small chancel behind
the high altar, is entirely covered with fresco paintings on a ground of
gold! The richness and splendor of the whole church is absolutely
incredible. Even after one has seen the Ludwig's Kirche and the
Residence itself, it excites astonishment. I was surprised, however, to
find at this age, a painting on the wall behind the altar, representing
the Almighty. It seems as if man's presumption has no end. The simple
altar of Athens, with its inscription "_to the Unknown God_," was more
truly reverent than this. As I sat down awhile under one of the arches,
a poor woman came in, carrying a heavy basket, and going to the steps
which led up to the altar, knelt down and prayed, spreading her arms out
in the form of a cross. Then, after stooping and kissing the first step,
she dragged herself with her knees upon it, and commenced praying again
with outspread arms. This she continued till she had climbed them all,
which occupied some time; then, as if she had fulfilled a vow she turned
and departed. She was undoubtedly sincere in her piety, but it made me
sad to look upon such deluded superstition.

We visited yesterday morning the Glyptothek, the finest collection of
ancient sculpture except that in the British Museum, I have yet seen,
and perhaps elsewhere unsurpassed, north of the Alps. The building which
was finished by Klenze, in 1830, has an Ionic portico of white marble,
with a group of allegorical figures, representing Sculpture and the
kindred arts. On each side of the portico, there are three niches in the
front, containing on one side, Pericles, Phidias and Vulcan; on the
other, Hadrian, Prometheus and Dædalus. The whole building forms a
hollow square, and is lighted entirely from the inner side. There are in
all twelve halls, each containing the remains of a particular era in the
art, and arranged according to time, so that, beginning with the clumsy
productions of the ancient Egyptians, one passes through the different
stages of Grecian art, afterwards that of Rome, and finally ends with
the works of our own times--the almost Grecian perfection of Thorwaldsen
and Canova. These halls are worthy to hold such treasures, and what more
could be said of them? The floors are of marble mosaic, the sides of
green or purple scagliola, and the vaulted ceilings covered with raised
ornaments on a ground of gold. No two are alike in color and decoration,
and yet there is a unity of taste and design in the whole, which renders
the variety delightful.

From the Egyptian Hall, we enter one containing the oldest remains of
Grecian sculpture, before the artists won power to _mould_ the marble to
their conceptions. Then follow the celebrated Egina marbles, from the
temple of Jupiter Panhellenius, on the island of Egina. They formerly
stood in the two porticoes, the one group representing the fight for the
body of Laomedon, the other the struggle for the dead Patroclus. The
parts wanting have been admirably restored by Thorwaldsen. They form
almost the only existing specimens of the Eginetan school. Passing
through the Apollo Hall, we enter the large hall of Bacchus, in which
the progress of the art is distinctly apparent. A satyr, lying asleep on
a goat-skin which he has thrown over a rock, is believed to be the work
of Praxiteles. The relaxation of the figure and perfect repose of every
limb, is wonderful. The countenance has traits of individuality which
led me to think it might have been a portrait, perhaps of some rude
country swain.

In the Hall of Niobe, which follows, is one of the most perfect works
that ever grew into life under a sculptor's chisel. Mutilated as it is,
without head and arms, I never saw a more expressive figure. Ilioneus,
the son of Niobe, is represented as kneeling, apparently in the moment
in which Apollo raises his arrow, and there is an imploring supplication
in his attitude which is touching in the highest degree. His beautiful
young limbs seem to shrink involuntarily from the deadly shaft; there is
an expression of prayer, almost of agony, in the position of his body.
It should be left untouched. No head could be added, which would equal
that one pictures to himself, while gazing upon it.

The Pinacothek is a magnificent building of yellow sandstone, five
hundred and thirty feet long, containing thirteen hundred pictures,
selected with great care from the whole private collection of the king,
which amounts to nine thousand. Above the cornice on the southern side,
stand twenty-five colossal statues of celebrated painters, by
Schwanthaler. As we approached, the tall bronze door was opened by a
servant in the Bavarian livery, whose size harmonized so well with the
giant proportions of the building, that, until I stood beside him and
could mark the contrast, I did not notice his enormous frame. I saw then
that he must be near eight feet high, and stout in proportion. He
reminded me of the great "Baver of Trient," in Vienna. The Pinacothek
contains the most complete collection of works by old German artists,
anywhere to be found. There are in the hall of the Spanish masters, half
a dozen of Murillo's inimitable beggar groups. It was a relief, after
looking upon the distressingly stiff figures of the old German school,
to view these fresh, natural countenances. One little black-eyed boy has
just cut a slice out of a melon and turns with a full mouth to his
companion, who is busy eating a bunch of grapes. The simple, contented
expression on the faces of the beggars is admirable. I thought I
detected in a beautiful child, with dark curly locks, the original of
his celebrated Infant St. John. I was much interested in two small
juvenile works of Raphael and his own portrait. The latter was taken
most probably after he became known as a painter. The calm, serious
smile which we see on his portrait as a boy, had vanished, and the thin
features and sunken eye told of intense mental labor.

One of the most remarkable buildings now in the course of erection is
the Basilica, or Church of St. Bonifacius. It represents another form of
the Byzantine style, a kind of double edifice, a little like a North
River steamboat, with a two story cabin on deck. The inside is not yet
finished, although the artists have been at work on it for six years,
but we heard many accounts of its splendor, which is said to exceed
anything that has been yet done in Munich. We visited to-day the
atelier of Sohwanthaler, which is always open to strangers. The sculptor
himself was not there, but five or six of his scholars were at work in
the rooms, building up clay statues after his models and working out
bas-reliefs in frames. We saw here the original models of the statues on
the Pinacothek, and the "Wittelsbach Ancestors" in the Throne Hall of
the palace. I was glad also to find a miniature copy in plaster, of the
Herrmannsschlacht, or combat of the old German hero, Herrmann, with the
Romans, from the frieze of the Walhalla, at Ratisbon. It is one of
Schwanthaler's best works. Herrmann, as the middle figure, is
represented in fight with the Roman general; behind him the warriors are
rushing on, and an old bard is striking the chords of his harp to
inspire them, while women bind up the wounds of the fallen. The Roman
soldiers on the other side are about turning in confusion to fly. It is
a lofty and appropriate subject for the portico of a building containing
the figures of the men who have labored for the glory and elevation of
their Fatherland.

Our new-found friend came to visit us last evening and learn our
impressions of Munich. In the course of conversation we surprised him by
revealing the name of our country. His countenance brightened up and he
asked us many questions about the state of society in America. In
return, he told us something more about himself--his story was simple,
hut it interested me. His father was a merchant, who, having been ruined
by unlucky transactions, died, leaving a numerous family without the
means of support. His children were obliged to commence life alone and
unaided, which, in a country where labor is so cheap, is difficult and
disheartening. Our friend chose the profession of a machinist, which,
after encountering great obstacles, he succeeded in learning, and now
supports himself as a common laborer. But his position in this respect
prevents him from occupying that station in society for which he is
intellectually fitted. His own words, uttered with a simple pathos which
I can never forget, will best describe how painful this must be to a
sensitive spirit. "I tell you thus frankly my feelings," said he,
"because I know you will understand me. I could not say this to any of
my associates, for they would not comprehend it, and they would say I
am proud, because I cannot bring my soul down to their level. I am poor
and have but little to subsist upon; but the spirit has needs as well as
the body, and I feel it a duty and a desire to satisfy them also. When I
am with any of my common fellow-laborers, what do I gain from them?
Their leisure hours are spent in drinking and idle amusement, and I
cannot join them, for I have no sympathy with such things. To mingle
with those above me, would be impossible. Therefore I am alone--I have
no associate!"

I have gone into minute, and it may be, tiresome detail, in describing
some of the edifices of Munich, because it seemed the only way in which
I could give an idea of their wonderful beauty. It is true that in
copying after the manner of the daguerreotype, there is danger of
imitating its _dullness_ also, but I trust to the glitter of gold and
rich paintings, for a little brightness in the picture. We leave
to-morrow morning, having received the sum written for, which, to our
surprise, will be barely sufficient to enable us to reach Heidelberg.




CHAPTER XXVII.

THROUGH WURTEMBERG TO HEIDELBERG.


We left Munich in the morning train for Augsburg. Between the two cities
extends a vast unbroken plain, exceedingly barren and monotonous. Here
and there is a little scrubby woodland, and sometimes we passed over a
muddy stream which came down from the Alps. The land is not more than
half-cultivated, and the villages are small and poor. We saw many of the
peasants at their stations, in their gay Sunday dresses; the women wore
short gowns with laced boddices, of gay colors, and little caps on the
top of their heads, with streamers of ribbons three feet long. After two
hours' ride, we saw the tall towers of Augsburg, and alighted on the
outside of the wall. The deep moat which surrounds the city, is all
grown over with velvet turf, the towers and bastions are empty and
desolate, and we passed unchallenged under the gloomy archway.
Immediately on entering the city, signs of its ancient splendor are
apparent. The houses are old, many of them with quaint, elaborately
carved ornaments, and often covered with fresco paintings. These
generally represent some scene from the Bible history, encircled with
arabesque borders, and pious maxims in illuminated scrolls. We went into
the old _Rathhaus_, whose golden hall still speaks of the days of
Augsburg's pride. I saw in the basement a bronze eagle, weighing sixteen
tons, with an inscription on the pedestal stating that it was cast in
1606, and formerly stood on the top of an old public building, since
torn down. In front of the Rathhaus is a fine bronze fountain, with a
number of figures of angels and tritons.

The same afternoon, we left Augsburg for Ulm. Long, low ranges of hills,
running from the Danube, stretched far across the country, and between
them lay many rich, green valleys. We passed, occasionally, large
villages, perhaps as old as the times of the crusaders, and looking
quite pastoral and romantic from the outside; but we were always glad
when we had gone through them and into the _clean_ country again. The
afternoon of the second day we came in sight of the fertile plain of the
Danube; far, far to the right lay the field of Blenheim, where
Marlborough and the Prince Eugene conquered the united French and
Bavarian forces and decided the war of the Spanish succession.

We determined to reach Ulm the same evening, although a heavy storm was
raging along the distant hills of Wurtemberg. The dark mass of the
mighty Cathedral rose in the distance through the twilight, a perfect
mountain in comparison with the little houses clustered around its base.
We reached New Ulm, finally, and passed over the heavy wooden bridge
into Wurtemberg, unchallenged for passport or baggage. I thought I could
feel a difference in the atmosphere when I reached the other side--it
breathed of the freer spirit that ruled through the land. The Danube is
here a little muddy stream, hardly as large as my native Brandywine, and
a traveler who sees it at Ulm for the first time would most probably be
disappointed. It is not until below Vienna, where it receives the Drave
and Save, that it becomes a river of more than ordinary magnitude.

We entered Ulm, as I have already said. It was after nine o'clock,
nearly dark, and beginning to rain; we had walked thirty-three miles,
and being of course tired, we entered the first inn we saw. But, to our
consternation, it was impossible to get a place--the fair had just
commenced, and the inn was full to the roof. We must needs hunt another,
and then another, and yet another, with like fate at each. It grew quite
dark, the rain increased, and we were unacquainted with the city. I grew
desperate, and at last, when we had stopped at the _eighth_ inn in vain,
I told the people we _must_ have lodgings, for it was impossible we
should walk around in the rain all night. Some of the guests interfering
in our favor, the hostess finally sent a servant with us to the first
hotel in the city. I told him on the way we were Americans, strangers in
Ulm, and not accustomed to sleeping in the streets. "Well," said he, "I
will go before, and recommend you to the landlord of the Golden Wheel."
I knew not what magic he used, but in half an hour our weary limbs were
stretched in delightful repose and we thanked Heaven more gratefully
than ever before, for the blessing of a good bed.

Next morning we ran about through the booths of the fair, and gazed up
from all sides at the vast Cathedral. The style is the simplest and
grandest Gothic; but the tower, which, to harmonize, with the body of
the church, should be 520 feet high, was left unfinished at the height
of 234 feet. I could not enough admire the grandeur of proportion in the
great building. It seemed singular that the little race of animals who
swarmed around its base, should have the power to conceive or execute
such a gigantic work.

There is an immense fortification now in progress of erection behind
Ulm. It leans on the side of the hill which rises from the Danube, and
must be nearly a mile in length. Hundreds of laborers are at work, and
from the appearance of the foundations, many years will be required to
finish it. The lofty mountain-plain which we afterwards passed over, for
eight or ten miles, divides the waters of the Danube from the Rhine.
From the heights above Ulm, we bade adieu to the far, misty Alps, till
we shall see them again in Switzerland. Late in the afternoon, we came
to a lovely green valley, sunk as it were in the earth. Around us, on
all sides, stretched the bare, lofty plains; but the valley lay below,
its steep sides covered with the richest forest. At the bottom flowed
the Fils. Our road led directly down the side; the glen spread out
broader as we advanced, and smiling villages stood beside the stream. A
short distance before reaching Esslingen, we came upon the banks of the
Neckar, whom we hailed as an old acquaintance, although much smaller
here in his mountain home than when he sweeps the walls of Heidelberg.

Delightful Wurtemberg! Shall I ever forget thy lovely green vales,
watered by the classic current of the Neckar, or thy lofty hills covered
with vineyards and waving forests, and crowned with heavy ruins, that
tell many a tale of Barbarossa and Duke Ulric and Goetz with the Iron
Hand! No--were even the Suabian hills less beautiful--were the Suabian
people less faithful and kind and true, still I would love the land for
the great spirits it has produced; still would the birth-place of
Frederick Schiller, of Uhland and Hauff, be sacred. I do not wonder
Wurtemberg can boast such glorious poets. Its lovely landscapes seem to
have been made expressly for the cradle of genius; amid no other scenes
could his infant mind catch a more benign inspiration. Even the common
people are deeply imbued with a poetic feeling. We saw it in their
friendly greetings and open, expressive countenances; it is shown in
their love for their beautiful homes and the rapture and reverence with
which they speak of their country's bards. No river in the world, equal
to the Neckar in size, flows for its whole course through more
delightful scenery, or among kinder and happier people.

After leaving Esslingen, we followed its banks for some time, at the
foot of an amphitheatre of hills, covered to the very summit, as far as
the eye could reach, with vineyards. The morning was cloudy, and white
mist-wreaths hung along the sides. We took a road that led over the top
of a range, and on arriving at the summit, saw all at once the city of
Stuttgard, lying beneath our feet. It lay in a basin encircled by
mountains, with a narrow valley opening to the south-east, and running
off between the hills to the Neckar. The situation of the city is one of
wonderful beauty, and even after seeing Salzburg, I could not but be
charmed with it.

We descended the mountain and entered it. I inquired immediately for the
monument of Schiller, for there was little else in the city I cared to
see. We had become tired of running about cities, hunting this or that
old church or palace, which perhaps was nothing when found. Stuttgard
has neither galleries, ruins, nor splendid buildings, to interest the
traveler; but it has Thorwaldsen's statue of Schiller, calling up at the
same time its shame and its glory. For the poet in his youth was obliged
to fly from this very same city--from home and friends, to escape the
persecution of the government on account of the free sentiments
expressed in his early works. We found the statue, without much
difficulty. It stands in the Schloss Platz, at the southern end of the
city, in an unfavorable situation, surrounded by dark old buildings. It
should rather be placed aloft on a mountain summit, in the pure, free
air of heaven, braving the storm and the tempest. The figure is fourteen
feet high and stands on a pedestal of bronze, with bas reliefs on the
four sides. The head, crowned with a laurel wreath, is inclined as if in
deep thought, and all the earnest soul is seen in the countenance.
Thorwaldsen has copied so truly the expression of poetic reverie, that I
waited, half-expecting he would raise his head and look around him.

As we passed out the eastern gate, the workmen were busy near the city,
making an embankment for the new railroad to Heilbroun, and we were
obliged to wade through half a mile of mud. Finally the road turned to
the left over a mountain, and we walked on in the rain, regardless of
the touching entreaties of an omnibus-driver, who felt a great concern
for our health, especially as he had two empty seats. There is a
peculiarly agreeable sensation in walking in a storm, when the winds
sweep by and the rain-drops rattle through the trees, and the dark
clouds roll past just above one's head. It gives a dash of sublimity to
the most common scene. If the rain did not finally soak through the
boots, and if one did not lose every romantic feeling in wet garments, I
would prefer storm to sunshine, for visiting some kinds of scenery. You
remember, we saw the North Coast of Ireland and the Giant's Causeway in
stormy weather, at the expense of being completely drenched, it is true;
but our recollections of that wild day's journey are as vivid as any
event of our lives--and the name of the Giant's Causeway calls up a
series of pictures as terribly sublime as any we would wish to behold.

The rain at last did come down a little too hard for comfort, and we
were quite willing to take shelter when we reached Ludwigsburg. This is
here called a new city, having been laid out with broad streets and
spacious squares, about a century ago, and is now about the size of our
five-year old city of Milwaukie! It is the chief military station of
Wurtemberg, and has a splendid castle and gardens, belonging to the
king. A few miles to the eastward is the little village where Schiller
was born. It is said the house where his parents lived is still
standing.

It was not the weather _alone_, which prevented our making a pilgrimage
to it, nor was it _alone_ a peculiar fondness for rain which induced us
to persist in walking in the storm. Our feeble pockets, if they could
have raised an audible jingle, would have told another tale. Our scanty
allowance was dwindling rapidly away, in spite of a desperate system of
economy. We left Ulm with a florin and a half apiece--about sixty
cents--to walk to Heidelberg, a distance of 110 miles. It was the
evening of the third day, and this was almost exhausted. As soon
therefore as the rain slackened a little, we started again, although the
roads were very bad. At Betigheim, where we passed the night, the people
told us of a much nearer and more beautiful road, passing through the
Zabergau, a region fumed for its fertility and pastoral beauty. At the
inn we were charged higher than usual for a bed, so that we had but
thirteen kreutzers to start with in the morning. Our fare that day was a
little bread and water; we walked steadily on, but owing to the wet
roads, made only thirty miles.

A more delightful region than the Zabergau I have seldom passed through.
The fields were full of rich, heavy grain, and the trees had a
luxuriance of foliage that reminded me of the vale of the Jed, in
Scotland. Without a single hedge or fence, stood the long sweep of
hills, covered with waving fields of grain, except where they were steep
and rocky, and the vineyard terraces rose one above another. Sometimes a
fine old forest grew along the summit, like a mane waving back from the
curved neck of a steed, and white villages lay coiled in the valleys
between. A line of blue mountains always closed the vista, on looking
down one of these long valleys; occasionally a ruined castle with donjon
tower, was seen on a mountain at the side, making the picture complete.
As we lay sometimes on the hillside and looked on one of those sweet
vales, we were astonished at its Arcadian beauty. The meadows were as
smooth as a mirror, and there seemed to be scarcely a grass-blade out of
place. The streams wound through ("_snaked_ themselves through," is the
German expression,) with a subdued ripple, as if they feared to displace
a pebble, and the great ash trees which stood here and there, had lined
each of their leaves as carefully with silver and turned them as
gracefully to the wind, us if they were making their toilettes for the
gala-day of nature.

That evening brought us into the dominions of Baden, within five hours'
walk of Heidelberg. At the humblest inn in an humble village, we found
a bed which we could barely pay for, leaving a kreutzer or two for
breakfast. Soon after starting the next morning, the distant Kaiserstuhl
suddenly emerged from the mist, with the high tower on its summit, where
nearly ten months before, we sat and looked at the summits of the Vosges
in France, with all the excitement one feels on entering a foreign land.
_Now_, the scenery around that same Kaiserstuhl was nearly as familiar
to us as that of our own homes. Entering the hills again, we knew by the
blue mountains of the Odenwald, that we were approaching the Neckar. At
length we reached the last height. The town of Neckargemünd lay before
us on the steep hillside, and the mountains on either side were scarred
with quarries of the rich red sandstone, so much used in building. The
blocks are hewn out, high up on the mountain side, and then sent rolling
and sliding down to the river, where they are laden in boats and floated
down with the current to the distant cities of the Rhine.

We were rejoiced on turning around the corner of a mountain, to see on
the opposite side of the river, the road winding up through the forests,
where last fall our Heidelberg friends accompanied us, as we set out to
walk to Frankfort, through the Odenwald. Many causes combined to render
it a glad scene to us. We were going to meet our comrade again, after a
separation of months; we were bringing an eventful journey to its close;
and finally, we were weak and worn out from fasting and the labor of
walking in the rain. A little further we saw Kloster Neuburg, formerly
an old convent, and remembered how we used to look at it every day from
the windows of our room on the Neckar; but we shouted aloud, when we saw
at last the well-known bridge spanning the river, and the glorious old
castle lifting its shattered towers from the side of the mountain above
us. I always felt a strong attachment to this matchless ruin, and as I
beheld it again, with the warm sunshine falling through each broken
arch, the wild ivy draping its desolate chambers, it seemed to smile on
me like the face of a friend, and I confessed I had seen many a grander
scene, but few that would cling to the memory so familiarly.

While we were in Heidelberg, a student was buried by torch-light. This
is done when particular honor is shown to the memory of the departed
brother. They assembled at dark in the University Square, each with a
blazing pine torch three feet long, and formed into a double line.
Between the files walked at short distances an officer, who, with his
sword, broad lace collar, and the black and white plumes in his cap,
looked like a cavalier of the olden time. Persons with torches walked on
each side of the hearse, and the band played a lament so deeply
mournful, that the scene, notwithstanding its singularity, was very sad
and touching. The thick smoke from the torches filled the air, and a
lurid, red light was cast over the hushed crowds in the streets and
streamed into the dark alleys. The Hauptstrasse was filled with two
lines of flame, as the procession passed down it; when they reached the
extremity of the city, the hearse went on, attended with torch-bearers,
to the Cemetery, some distance further, and the students turned back,
running and whirling their torches in mingled confusion. The music
struck up a merry march, and in the smoke and red glare, they looked
like a company of mad demons. The presence of death awed them to silence
for awhile, but as soon as it had left them, they turned relieved to
revel again and thought no more of the lesson. It gave me a painful
feeling to see them rushing so wildly and disorderly back. They
assembled again in the square, and tossing their torches up into the air
cast them blazing into a pile; while the flame and black smoke rose in a
column into the air, they sang in solemn chorus, the song "_Gaudeamus
igitur_," with which they close all public assemblies.

I shall neglect telling how we left Heidelberg, and walked along the
Bergstrasse again, for the sixth time; how we passed the old Melibochus
and through the quiet city of Darmstadt; how we watched the blue summits
of the Taunus rising higher and higher over the plain, as a new land
rises from the sea, and finally, how we reached at last the old
watch-tower and looked down on the valley of the Main, clothed in the
bloom and verdure of summer, with the houses and spires of Frankfort in
the middle of the well-known panorama. We again took possession of our
old rooms, and having to wait for a remittance from America, as well as
a more suitable season for visiting Italy, we sat down to a month's rest
and study.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

FREIBURG AND THE BLACK FOREST.


_Frankfort, July 29, 1845._--It would be ingratitude towards the old
city in which I have passed so many pleasant and profitable hours, to
leave it, perhaps forever, without a few words of farewell. How often
will the old bridge, with its view up the Main, over the houses of
Oberrad to the far mountains of the Odenwald, rise freshly and
distinctly in memory, when I shall have been long absent from them! How
often will I hear in fancy as I now do in reality, the heavy tread of
passers-by on the rough pavement below, and the deep bell of the
Cathedral, chiming the swift hours, with a hollow tone that seems to
warn me, rightly to employ them! Even this old room, with its bare
walls, little table and chairs, which I have thought and studied in so
long, that it seems difficult to think and study anywhere else, will
crowd out of memory images of many a loftier scene. May I but preserve
for the future the hope and trust which have cheered and sustained me
here, through the sorrow of absence and the anxiety of uncertain toil!
It is growing towards midnight and I think of many a night when I sat
here at this hour, answering the spirit-greeting which friends sent me
at sunset over the sea. All this has now an end. I must begin a new
wandering, and perhaps in ten days more I shall have a better place for
thought, among the mountain-chambers of the everlasting Alps. I look
forward to the journey with romantic, enthusiastic anticipation, for
afar in the silvery distance, stand the Coliseum and St. Peter's,
Vesuvius and the lovely Naples. Farewell, friends who have so long given
us a home!

_Aug. 9._--The airy, basket-work tower of the Freiburg Minster rises
before me over the black roofs of the houses, and behind stand the
gloomy, pine-covered mountains of the Black Forest. Of our walk to
Heidelberg over the oft-trodden Bergstrasse, I shall say nothing, nor
how we climbed the Kaiserstuhl again, and danced around on the top of
the tower for one hour, amid cloud and mist, while there was sunshine
below in the valley of the Neckar. I left Heidelberg yesterday morning
in the _stehwagen_ for Carlsruhe. The engine whistled, the train
started, and although I kept my eyes steadily fixed on the spire of the
Hauptkirche, three minutes hid it, and all the rest of the city from
sight. Carlsruhe, the capital of Baden, which we reached in an hour and
a half, is unanimously pronounced by travelers to be a most dull and
tiresome city. From a glance I had through one of the gates, I should
think its reputation was not undeserved. Even its name, in German,
signifies a place of repose.

I stopped at Kork, on the branch road leading to Strasbourg, to meet a
German-American about to return to my home in Pennsylvania, where he had
lived for some time. I inquired according to the direction he had sent
me to Frankfort, but he was not there; however, an old man, finding who
I was, said Herr Otto had directed him to go with me to Hesselhurst, a
village four or five miles off, where he would meet me. So we set off
immediately over the plain, and reached the village at dusk.

At the little inn, were several of the farmers of the neighborhood, who
seemed to consider it as something extraordinary to see a real, live,
native-born American. They overwhelmed me with questions about the state
of our country, its government, etc. The hostess brought me a supper of
fried eggs and _wurst_, while they gathered around the table and began a
real category in the dialect of the country, which is difficult to
understand. I gave them the best information I could about our mode of
farming, the different kinds of produce raised, and the prices paid to
laborers; one honest old man cried out, on my saying I had worked on a
farm, "Ah! little brother, give me your hand!" which he shook most
heartily. I told them also something about our government, and the
militia system, so different from the conscription of Europe, when a
farmer becoming quite warm in our favor, said to the others with an air
of the greatest decision: "One American is better than twenty Germans!"
What particularly amused me, was, that although I spoke German with
them, they seemed to think I did not understand what they said among
one another, and therefore commented very freely over my appearance. I
suppose they had the idea that we were a rude, savage race, for I
overheard one say: "One sees, nevertheless, that he has been educated!"
Their honest, unsophisticated mode of expression was very interesting to
me, and we talked together till a late hour.

My friend arrived at three o'clock the next morning, and after two or
three hours' talk about _home_, and the friends whom he expected to see
so much sooner than I, a young farmer drove me in his wagon to
Offenburg, a small city at the foot of the Black Forest, where I took
the cars for Freiburg. The scenery between the two places is grand. The
broad mountains of the Black Forest rear their fronts on the east, and
the blue lines of the French Vosges meet the clouds on the west. The
night before, in walking over the plain, I saw distinctly the whole of
the Strasbourg Minster, whose spire is the highest in Europe, being four
hundred and ninety feet, or but twenty-five feet lower than the Pyramid
of Cheops.

I visited the Minster of Freiburg yesterday morning. It is a grand,
gloomy old pile, dating from the eleventh century--one of the few Gothic
churches in Germany that have ever been completed. The tower of
beautiful fretwork, rises to the height of three hundred and ninety-five
feet, and the body of the church including the choir, is of the same
length. The interior is solemn and majestic. Windows stained in colors
that burn, let in a "dim, religious light" which accords very well with
the dark old pillars and antique shrines. In two of the chapels there
are some fine altar-pieces by Holbein and one of his scholars; and a
very large crucifix of silver and ebony, which is kept with great care,
is said to have been carried with the Crusaders to the Holy Land. This
morning was the great market-day, and the peasantry of the Black Forest
came down from the mountains to dispose of their produce. The square
around the Minster was filled with them, and the singular costume of the
women gave the scene quite a strange appearance. Many of them wore
bright red head-dresses and shawls, others had high-crowned hats of
yellow oil-cloth; the young girls wore their hair in long plaits,
reaching nearly to their feet. They brought grain, butter and cheese
and a great deal of fine fruit to sell--I bought some of the wild,
aromatic plums of the country, at the rate of thirty for a cent.

The railroad has only been open to Freiburg within a few days, and is
consequently an object of great curiosity to the peasants, many of whom
never saw the like before. They throng around the station at the
departure of the train and watch with great interest the operations of
getting up the steam and starting. One of the scenes that grated most
harshly on my feelings, was seeing yesterday a company of women employed
on the unfinished part of the road. They were digging and shoveling away
in the rain, nearly up to their knees in mud and clay!

I called at the Institute for the Blind, under the direction of Mr.
Müller. He showed me some beautiful basket and woven work by his pupils;
the accuracy and skill with which everything was made astonished me.
They read with amazing facility from the raised type, and by means of
frames are taught to write with ease and distinctness. In music, that
great solace of the blind, they most excelled. They sang with an
expression so true and touching, that it was a delight to listen. The
system of instruction adopted appears to be most excellent, and gives to
the blind nearly every advantage which their more fortunate brethren
enjoy.

I am indebted to Mr. Müller, to whom I was introduced by an acquaintance
with his friend, Dr. Rivinus, of West Chester, Pa., for many kind
attentions. He went with us this afternoon to the Jägerhaus, on a
mountain near, where we had a very fine view of the city and its great
black Minster, with the plain of the Briesgau, broken only by the
Kaiserstuhl, a long mountain near the Rhine, whose golden stream
glittered in the distance. On climbing the Schlossberg, an eminence near
the city, we met the Grand Duchess Stephanie, a natural daughter of
Napoleon, as I have heard, and now generally believed to be the mother
of Caspar Hauser. Through a work lately published, which has since been
suppressed, the whole history has come to light. Caspar Hauser was the
lineal descendant of the house of Baden, and heir to the throne. The
guilt of his imprisonment and murder rests, therefore, upon the present
reigning family.

A chapel on the Schönberg, the mountain opposite, was pointed out as
the spot where Louis XV., if I mistake not, usually stood while his army
besieged Freiburg. A German officer having sent a ball to this chapel
which struck the wall just above the king's head, the latter sent word
that if they did not cease firing he would point his cannons at the
Minster. The citizens thought it best to spare the monarch and save the
cathedral.

We attended a meeting of the _Walhalla_, or society of the students who
visit the Freiburg University. They pleased me better than the
enthusiastic but somewhat unrestrained Burschenschaft of Heidelberg.
Here, they have abolished duelling; the greatest friendship prevails
among the students, and they have not that contempt for every thing
_philister_, or unconnected with their studies, which prevails in other
universities. Many respectable citizens attend their meetings; to-night
there was a member of the Chamber of Deputies at Carlsruhe present, who
delivered two speeches, in which every third word was "freedom!" An
address was delivered also by a merchant of the city, in which he made a
play upon the word _spear_, which signifies also in a cant sense,
_citizen_, find seemed to indicate that both would do their work in the
good cause. He was loudly applauded. Their song of union was by Charles
Follen, and the students were much pleased when I told them how he was
honored and esteemed in America.

After two days, delightfully spent, we shouldered our knapsacks and left
Freiburg. The beautiful valley, at the mouth of which the city lies,
runs like an avenue for seven miles directly into the mountains, and
presents in its loveliness such a contrast to the horrid defile which
follows, that it almost deserves the name which has been given to a
little inn at its head--the "Kingdom of Heaven." The mountains of the
Black Forest enclose it on each side like walls, covered to the summit
with luxuriant woods, and in some places with those forests of gloomy
pine which give this region its name. After traversing its whole length,
just before plunging into the mountain-depths, the traveler rarely meets
with a finer picture than that which, on looking back, he sees framed
between the hills at the other end. Freiburg looks around the foot of
one of the heights, with the spire of her cathedral peeping above the
top, while the French Vosges grew dim in the far perspective.

The road now enters a wild, narrow valley, which grows smaller as we
proceed. From Himmelreich, a large rude inn by the side of the green
meadows, we enter the Höllenthal--that is, from the "Kingdom of Heaven"
to the "Valley of Hell!" The latter place better deserves its
appellation than the former. The road winds between precipices of black
rock, above which the thick foliage shuts out the brightness of day and
gives a sombre hue to the scene. A torrent foams down the chasm, and in
one place two mighty pillars interpose to prevent all passage. The
stream, however, has worn its way through, and the road is hewn in the
rock by its side. This cleft is the only entrance to a valley three or
four miles long, which lies in the very heart of the mountains. It is
inhabited by a few woodmen and their families, and but for the road
which passes through, would be as perfect a solitude as the Happy Valley
of Rasselas. At the farther end, a winding road called "The Ascent,"
leads up the steep mountain to an elevated region of country, thinly
settled and covered with herds of cattle. The cherries which, in the
Rhine-plain below, had long gone, were just ripe here. The people spoke
a most barbarous dialect; they were social and friendly, for everybody
greeted us, and sometimes, as we sat on a bank by the roadside, those
who passed by would say "Rest thee!" or "Thrice rest!"

Passing by the Titi Lake, a small body of water which was spread out
among the hills like a sheet of ink, so deep was its Stygian hue, we
commenced ascending a mountain. The highest peak of the Schwarzwald, the
Feldberg, rose not far off, and on arriving at the top of this mountain,
we saw that a half hour's walk would bring us to its summit. This was
too great a temptation for my love of climbing heights; so with a look
at the descending sun to calculate how much time we could spare, we set
out. There was no path, but we pressed directly up the steep side,
through bushes and long grass, and in a short time reached the top,
breathless from such exertion in the thin atmosphere. The pine woods
shut out the view to the north and east, which is said to be
magnificent, as the mountain is about five thousand feet high. The
wild, black peaks of the Black Forest were spread below us, and the sun
sank through golden mist towards the Alsatian hills. Afar to the south,
through cloud and storm, we could just trace the white outline of the
Swiss Alps. The wind swept through the pines around, and bent the long
yellow grass among which we sat, with a strange, mournful sound, well
suiting the gloomy and mysterious region. It soon grew cold, the golden
clouds settled down towards us, and we made haste to descend to the
village of Lenzkirch before dark.

Next morning we set out early, without waiting to see the trial of
archery which was to take place among the mountain youths. Their booths
and targets, gay with banners, stood on a green meadow beside the town.
We walked through the Black Forest the whole forenoon. It might be owing
to the many wild stories whose scenes are laid among these hills, but
with me there was a peculiar feeling of solemnity pervading the whole
region. The great pine woods are of the very darkest hue of green, and
down their hoary, moss-floored aisles, daylight seems never to have
shone. The air was pure and clear, and the sunshine bright, but it
imparted no gaiety to the scenery: except the little meadows of living
emerald which lay occasionally in the lap of a dell, the landscape wore
a solemn and serious air. In a storm, it must be sublime.

About noon, from the top of the last range of hills, we had a glorious
view. The line of the distant Alps could be faintly traced high in the
clouds, and all the heights between were plainly visible, from the Lake
of Constance to the misty Jura, which flanked the Vosges of the west.
From our lofty station we overlooked half Switzerland, and had the air
been a little clearer, we could have seen Mont Blanc and the mountains
of Savoy. I could not help envying the feelings of the Swiss, who, after
long absence from their native land, first see the Alps from this road.
If to the emotions with which I then looked on them were added the
passionate love of home and country which a long absence creates, such
excess of rapture would be almost too great to be borne.

In the afternoon we crossed the border, and took leave of Germany with
regret, after near a year's residence within its bounds. Still it was
pleasant to know we were in a republic once more: the first step we took
made us aware of the change. There was no policeman to call for our
passports or search our baggage. It was just dark when we reached the
hill overlooking the Rhine, on whose steep banks is perched the antique
town of Schaffhausen. It is still walled in, with towers at regular
intervals; the streets are wide and spacious, and the houses rendered
extremely picturesque by the quaint projecting windows. The buildings
are nearly all old, as we learned by the dates above the doors. At the
inn, I met with one of the free troopers who marched against Luzerne. He
was full of spirit, and ready to undertake another such journey. Indeed
it is the universal opinion that the present condition of things cannot
last much longer.

We took a walk before breakfast to the Falls of the Rhine, about a mile
and a half from Schaffhausen. I confess I was somewhat disappointed in
them, after the glowing descriptions of travelers. The river at this
place is little more than thirty yards wide, and the body of water,
although issuing from the Lake of Constance, is not remarkably strong.
For some distance above, the fall of the water is very rapid, and as it
finally reaches the spot where, narrowed between rocks, it makes the
grand plunge, it has acquired a great velocity. Three rocks stand in the
middle of the current, which thunders against and around their bases,
but cannot shake them down. These and the rocks in the bed of the
stream, break the force of the fall, so that it descends to the bottom,
about fifty feet below, not in one sheet, but shivered into a hundred
leaps of snowy foam. The precipitous shores, and the tasteful little
castle which is perched upon the steep just over the boiling spray, add
much to its beauty, taken as a picture. As a specimen of the
picturesque, the whole scene is perfect. I should think Trenton Falls,
in New York, must excel these in wild, startling effect; but there is
such a scarcity of waterfalls in this land, that the Germans go into
raptures about them, and will hardly believe that Niagara itself
possesses more sublimity.




CHAPTER XXIX.

PEOPLE AND PLACES IN EASTERN SWITZERLAND.


We left Schaffhausen for Zurich, in mist and rain, and walked for some
time along the north bank of the Rhine. We could have enjoyed the
scenery much better, had it not been for the rain, which not only hid
the mountains from sight, but kept us constantly half soaked. We crossed
the rapid Rhine at Eglisau, a curious antique village, and then
continued our way through the forests of Canton Zurich, to Bülach, with
its groves of lindens--"those tall and stately trees, with velvet down
upon their shining leaves, and rustic benches placed beneath their
overhanging eaves."

When we left the little village where the rain obliged us to stop for
the night, it was clear and delightful. The farmers were out, busy at
work, their long, straight scythes glancing through the wet grass, while
the thick pines sparkled with thousands of dewy diamonds. The country
was so beautiful and cheerful, that we half felt like being in America.
The farm-houses were scattered over the country in real American style,
and the glorious valley of the Limmat, bordered on the west by a range
of woody hills, reminded me of some scenes in my native Pennsylvania.
The houses were neatly and tastefully built, with little gardens around
them--and the countenances of the people spoke of intelligence and
independence. There was the same air of peace and prosperity which
delighted us in the valleys of Upper Austria, with a look of freedom
which those had not. The faces of a people are the best index to their
condition. I could read on their brows a lofty self-respect, a
consciousness of the liberties they enjoy, which the Germans of the
laboring class never show. It could not be imagination, for the recent
occurrences in Switzerland, with the many statements I heard in Germany,
had prejudiced me somewhat against the land; and these marks of
prosperity and freedom were as surprising as they were delightful.

As we approached Zurich, the noise of employment from mills, furnaces
and factories, came to us like familiar sounds, reminding us of the
bustle of our home cities. The situation of the city is lovely. It lies
at the head of the lake, and on both sides of the little river Limmat,
whose clear green waters carry the collected meltings of the Alps to the
Rhine. Around the lake rise lofty green hills, which, sloping gently
back, bear on their sides hundreds of pleasant country-houses and farms,
and the snowy Alpine range extends along the southern sky. The Limmat is
spanned by a number of bridges, and its swift waters turn many mills
which are built above them. From these bridges one can look out over the
blue lake and down the thronged streets of the city on each side, whose
bright, cheerful houses remind him of Italy.

Zurich can boast of finer promenades than any other city in Switzerland.
The old battlements are planted with trees and transformed into pleasant
walks, which being elevated above the city, command views of its
beautiful environs. A favorite place of resort is the Lindenhof, an
elevated court-yard, shaded by immense trees. The fountains of water
under them are always surrounded by washerwomen, and in the morning
groups of merry school children may be seen tumbling over the grass. The
teachers take them there in a body for exercise and recreation. The
Swiss children are beautiful, bright-eyed creatures; there is scarcely
one who does not exhibit the dawning of an active, energetic spirit. It
may be partly attributed to the fresh, healthy climate of Switzerland,
but I am partial enough to republics to believe that the influence of
the Government under which they live, has also its share in producing
the effect.

There is a handsome promenade on an elevated bastion which overlooks the
city and lakes. While enjoying the cool morning breeze and listening to
the stir of the streets below us, we were also made aware of the social
and friendly politeness of the people. Those who passed by, on their
walk around the rampart, greeted us, almost with the familiarity of an
acquaintance. Simple as was the act, we felt grateful, for it had at
least the seeming of a friendly interest and a sympathy with the
loneliness which the stranger sometimes feels. A school-teacher leading
her troop of merry children on their morning walk around the bastion,
nodded to us pleasantly and forthwith the whole company of
chubby-cheeked rogues, looking up at us with a pleasant archness, lisped
a "_guten morgen_" that made the hearts glad within us. I know of
nothing that has given me a more sweet and tender delight than the
greeting of a little child, who, leaving his noisy playmates, ran across
the street to me, and taking my hand, which he could barely clasp in
both his soft little ones, looked up in my face with an expression so
winning and affectionate, that I loved him at once. The happy, honest
farmers, too, spoke to us cheerfully everywhere. We learned a lesson
from all this--we felt that not a word of kindness is ever wasted, that
a simple friendly glance may cheer the spirit and warm the lonely heart,
and that the slightest deed, prompted by generous sympathy, becomes a
living joy in the memory of the receiver, which blesses unceasingly him
who bestowed it.

We left Zurich the same afternoon, to walk to Stafa, where we were told
the poet Freiligrath resided. The road led along the bank of the lake,
whose shores sloped gently up from the water, covered with gardens and
farm-houses, which, with the bolder mountains that rose behind them,
made a combination of the lovely and grand, on which the eye rested with
rapture and delight. The sweetest cottages were embowered among the
orchards, and the whole country bloomed like a garden. The waters of the
lake are of a pale, transparent green, and so clear that we could see
its bottom of white pebbles, for some distance. Here and there floated a
quiet boat on its surface. The opposite hills were covered with a soft
blue haze, and white villages sat along the shore, "like swans among the
reeds." Behind, we saw the woody range of the Brunig Alp. The people
bade us a pleasant good evening; there was a universal air of
cheerfulness and content on their countenances.

Towards evening, the clouds which hung in the south the whole day,
dispersed a little and we could see the Dodiberg and the Alps of Glarus.
As sunset drew on, the broad summits of snow and the clouds which were
rolled around them, assumed a soft rosy hue, which increased in
brilliancy as the light of day faded. The rough, icy crags and snowy
steeps were fused in the warm light and half blended with the bright
clouds. This blaze, as it were, of the mountains at sunset, is called
the _Alp-glow_, and exceeds all one's highest conceptions of Alpine
grandeur. We watched the fading glory till it quite died away, and the
summits wore a livid, ashy hue, like the mountains of a world wherein
there was no life. In a few minutes more the dusk of twilight spread
over the scene, the boatmen glided home over the still lake and the
herdsmen drove their cattle back from pasture on the slopes and meadows.

On inquiring for Freiligrath at Stafa, we found he had removed to
Rapperschwyl, some distance further. As it was already late, we waited
for the steamboat which leaves Zurich every evening. It came along about
eight o'clock, and a little boat carried us out through rain and
darkness to meet it, as it came like a fiery-eyed monster over the
water. We stepped on board the "Republican," and in half an hour were
brought to the wharf at Rapperschwyl.

There are two small islands in the lake, one of which, with a little
chapel rising from among its green trees, is Ufnau, the grave of Ulrich
von Hutten, one of the fathers of the German Reformation. His fiery
poems have been the source from which many a German bard has derived his
inspiration, and Freiligrath who now lives in sight of his tomb, has
published an indignant poem, because an inn with gaming tables has been
established in the ruins of the castle near Creuznach, where Hutten
found refuge from his enemies with Franz von Sickingen, brother-in-law
of "Goetz with the iron Hand." The monks of Einsiedeln, to whom Ufnau
belongs, have carefully obliterated all traces of his grave, so that the
exact spot is not known, in order that even a tombstone might be denied
him who once strove to overturn their order. It matters little to that
bold spirit whose motto was: "_The die is cast--I have dared it!_"--the
whole island is his monument, if he need one.

I spent the whole of the morning with Freiligrath, the poet, who was
lately banished from Germany on account of the liberal principles his
last volume contains. He lives in a pleasant country-house on the
Meyerberg, an eminence near Rapperschwyl, overlooking a glorious
prospect. On leaving Frankfort, R.S. Willis gave me a letter to him, and
I was glad to meet with a man personally whom I admired so much through
his writings, and whose boldness in speaking out against the tyranny
which his country suffers, forms such a noble contrast to the cautious
slowness of his countrymen. He received me kindly and conversed much
upon American literature. He is a warm admirer of Bryant and Longfellow,
and has translated many of their poems into German. He said he had
received a warm invitation from a colony of Germans in Wisconsin, to
join them and enjoy that freedom which his native land denies, but that
his circumstances would not allow it at present. He is perhaps
thirty-five years of age. His brow is high and noble, and his eyes,
which are large and of a clear gray, beam with serious, saddened
thought. His long chesnut hair, uniting with a handsome beard and
moustache, gives a lion-like dignity to his energetic countenance. His
talented wife, Ida Freiligrath, who shares his literary labors, and an
amiable sister, are with him in exile, and he is happier in their
faithfulness than when he enjoyed the favors of a corrupt king.

We crossed the long bridge from Rapperschwyl, and took the road over the
mountain opposite, ascending for nearly two hours along the side, with
glorious views of the Lake of Zurich and the mountains which enclose it.
The upper and lower ends of the lake were completely hid by the storms,
which, to our regret, veiled the Alps, but the part below lay spread out
dim and grand, like a vast picture. It rained almost constantly, and we
were obliged occasionally to take shelter in the pine forests, whenever
a heavier cloud passed over. The road was lined with beggars, who
dropped on their knees in the rain before us, or placed bars across the
way, and then took them down again, for which they demanded money.

At length we reached the top of the pass. Many pilgrims to Einsiedeln
had stopped at a little inn there, some of whom came a long distance to
pay their vows, especially as the next day was the Ascension day of the
Virgin, whose image there is noted for performing many miracles. Passing
on, we crossed a wild torrent by an arch called the "Devil's Bridge."
The lofty, elevated plains were covered with scanty patches of grain
and potatoes, and the boys tended their goats on the grassy slopes,
sometimes trilling or _yodling_ an Alpine melody. An hour's walk brought
us to Einsiedeln, a small town, whose only attraction is the
Abbey--after Loretto, in Italy, the most celebrated resort for pilgrims
in Europe.

We entered immediately into the great church. The gorgeous vaulted roof
and long aisles were dim with the early evening; hundreds of worshippers
sat around the sides, or kneeled in groups on the broad stone pavements,
chanting over their Paternosters and Ave Marias in a shrill, monotonous
tone, while the holy image near the entrance was surrounded by persons,
many of whom came in the hope of being healed of some disorder under
which they suffered. I could not distinctly make out the image, for it
was placed back within the grating, and a strong crimson lamp behind it
was made to throw the light around, in the form of a glory. Many of the
pilgrims came a long distance. I saw some in the costume of the Black
Forest, and others who appeared to be natives of the Italian Cantons;
and a group of young women wearing conical fur caps, from the forests of
Bregenz, on the Lake of Constance.

I was astonished at the splendor of this church, situated in a lonely
and unproductive Alpine valley. The lofty arches of the ceiling, which
are covered with superb fresco paintings, rest on enormous pillars of
granite, and every image and shrine is richly ornamented with gold. Some
of the chapels were filled with the remains of martyrs, and these were
always surrounded with throngs of believers. The choir was closed by a
tall iron grating; a single lamp, which swung from the roof, enabled me
to see through the darkness, that though much more rich in ornaments
than the body of the church, it was less grand and impressive. The
frescoes which cover the ceiling, are said to be the finest paintings of
the kind in Switzerland.

In the morning our starting was delayed by the rain, and we took
advantage of it to hear mass in the Abbey and enjoy the heavenly music.
The latter was of the loftiest kind; there was one voice among the
singers I shall not soon forget. It was like the warble of a bird who
sings out of very wantonness. On and on it sounded, making its clear,
radiant sweetness heard above the chant of the choir and the thunder of
the orchestra. Such a rich, varied and untiring strain of melody I have
rarely listened to.

When the service ceased, we took a small road leading to Schwytz. We had
now fairly entered the Alpine region, and our first task was to cross a
mountain. This having been done, we kept along the back of the ridge
which bounds the lake of Zug on the south, terminating in the well known
Rossberg. The scenery became wilder with every step. The luxuriant
fields of herbage on the mountains were spotted with the picturesque
_chalets_ of the hunters and Alp-herds; cattle and goats were browsing
along the declivities, their bells tinkling most musically, and the
little streams fell in foam down the steeps. We here began to realize
our anticipations of Swiss scenery. Just on the other side of the range,
along which we traveled, lay the little lake of Egeri and valley of
Morgarten, where Tell and his followers overcame the army of the German
Emperor; near the lake of Lowertz, we found a chapel by the roadside,
built on the spot where the house of Werner Stauffacher, one of the
"three men of Grütli," formerly stood. It bears a poetical inscription
in old German, and a rude painting of the Battle of Morgarten.

As we wound around the lake of Lowertz, we saw the valley lying between
the Rossberg and the Righi, which latter mountain stood full in view. To
our regret, and that of all other travelers, the clouds hung low upon
it, as they had done for a week at least, and there was no prospect of a
change. The Rossberg, from which we descended, is about four thousand
feet in height; a dark brown stripe from its very summit to the valley
below, shows the track of the avalanche which, in 1806, overwhelmed
Goldau, and laid waste the beautiful vale of Lowertz. We could trace the
masses of rock and earth as far as the foot of the Righi. Four hundred
and fifty persons perished by this catastrophe, which was so sudden that
in five minutes the whole lovely valley was transformed into a desolate
wilderness. The shock was so great that the lake of Lowertz overflowed
its banks, and part of the village of Steinen at the upper end was
destroyed by the waters.

An hour's walk through a blooming Alpine vale brought us to the little
town of Schwytz, the capital of the Canton. It stands at the foot of a
rock-mountain, in shape not unlike Gibraltar, but double its height. The
bare and rugged summits seem to hang directly over the town, but the
people dwell below without fear, although the warning ruins of Goldau
are full in sight. A narrow blue line at the end of the valley which
stretches westward, marks the lake of the Four Cantons. Down this valley
we hurried, that we might not miss the boat which plies daily, from
Luzerne to Fluelen. I regretted not being able to visit Luzerne, as I
had a letter to the distinguished Swiss composer, Schnyder von
Wartensee, who resides there at present. The place is said to present a
most desolate appearance, being avoided by travelers, and even by
artisans, so that business of all kinds has almost entirely ceased.

At the little town of Brunnen, on the lake, we awaited the coming of the
steamboat. The scenery around it is exceedingly grand. Looking down
towards Luzerne, we could see the dark mass of Mount Pilatus on one
side, and on the other the graceful outline of the Righi, still wearing
his hood of clouds. We put off in a skiff to meet the boat, with two
Capuchin friars in long brown mantles and cowls, carrying rosaries at
their girdles.

Nearly opposite Brunnen is the meadow of Grütli, where the union of the
Swiss patriots took place, and the bond was sealed that enabled them to
cast off their chains. It is a little green slope on the side of the
mountain, between the two Cantons of Uri and Unterwalden, surrounded on
all sides by precipices. A little crystal spring in the centre is
believed by the common people to have gushed up on the spot where the
three "linked the hands that made them free." It is also a popular
belief that they slumber in a rocky cavern near the spot, and that they
will arise and come forth when the liberties of Switzerland are in
danger. She stands at present greatly in need of a new triad to restore
the ancient harmony.

We passed this glorious scene, almost the only green spot on the bleak
mountain-side, and swept around the base of the Axenberg, at whose foot,
in a rocky cave, stands the chapel of William Tell. This is built on the
spot where he leaped from Gessler's boat during the storm. It sits at
the base of the rock, on the water's edge, and can be seen far over the
waves. The Alps, whose eternal snows are lifted dazzling to the sky,
complete the grandeur of a scene so hallowed by the footsteps of
freedom. The grand and lonely solemnity of the landscape impressed me
with an awe, like that one feels when standing in a mighty cathedral,
when the aisles are dim with twilight. And how full of interest to a
citizen of young and free America is a shrine where the votaries of
Liberty have turned to gather strength and courage, through the storms
and convulsions of five hundred years!

We stopped at the village of Fluelen, at the head of the lake, and
walked on to Altorf, a distance of half a league. Here, in the
market-place, is a tower said to be built on the spot where the linden
tree stood, under which the child of Tell was placed, while, about a
hundred yards distant, is a fountain with Tell's statue, on the spot
from whence he shot the apple. If these localities are correct, he must
indeed have been master of the cross-bow. The tower is covered with rude
paintings of the principal events in the history of Swiss liberty. I
viewed these scenes with double interest from having read Schiller's
"Wilhelm Tell," one of the most splendid tragedies ever written. The
beautiful reply of his boy, when he described to him the condition of
the "land where there are no mountains," was sounding in my ears during
the whole day's journey:

    "Father, I'd feel oppressed in that broad land,
    I'd rather dwell beneath the avalanche!"

The little village of Burglen, whose spire we saw above the forest, in a
glen near by, was the birth-place of Tell, and the place where his
dwelling stood, is now marked by a small chapel. In the Schachen, a
noisy mountain stream that comes down to join the Reuss, he was drowned,
when an old man, in attempting to rescue a child who had fallen in--a
death worthy of the hero! We bestowed a blessing on his memory in
passing, and then followed the banks of the rapid Reuss. Twilight was
gathering in the deep Alpine glen, and the mountains on each side,
half-seen through the mist, looked like vast, awful phantoms. Soon they
darkened to black, indistinct masses; all was silent except the
deepened roar of the falling floods; dark clouds brooded above us like
the outspread wings of night, and we were glad, when the little village
of Amstegg was reached, and the parlor of the inn opened to us a more
cheerful, if not so romantic scene.




CHAPTER XXX.

PASSAGE OF THE ST. GOTHARD AND DESCENT INTO ITALY.


Leaving Amstegg, I passed the whole day among snowy, sky-piercing Alps,
torrents, chasms and clouds! The clouds appeared to be breaking up as we
set out, and the white top of the Reassberg was now and then visible in
the sky. Just above the village are the remains of Zwing Uri, the castle
begun by the tyrant Gessler, for the complete subjugation of the canton.
Following the Reuss up through a narrow valley, we passed the
Bristenstock, which lifts its jagged crags nine thousand feet in the
air, while on the other side stand the snowy summits which lean towards
the Rhone Glacier and St. Gothard. From the deep glen where the Reuss
foamed down towards the Lake of the Forest Cantons, the mountains rose
with a majestic sweep so far into the sky that the brain grew almost
dizzy in following their outlines. Woods, chalets and slopes of herbage
covered their bases, where the mountain cattle and goats were browsing,
while the herd-boys sang their native melodies or woke the ringing
echoes with the loud, sweet sounds of their wooden horns; higher up, the
sides were broken into crags and covered with stunted pines; then
succeeded a belt of bare rock with a little snow lying in the crevices,
and the summits of dazzling white looked out from the clouds nearly
three-fourths the height of the zenith. Sometimes when the vale was
filled with clouds, it was startling to see them parting around a
solitary summit, apparently isolated in the air at an immense height,
for the mountain to which it belonged was hidden to the very base!

The road passed from one side of the valley to the other, crossing the
Reuss on bridges sometimes ninety feet high. After three or four hours
walking, we reached a frightful pass called the Schollenen. So narrow is
the defile that before reaching it, the road seemed to enter directly
into the mountain. Precipices a thousand feet high tower above, and the
stream roars and boils in the black depth below. The road is a wonder of
art; it winds around the edge of horrible chasms or is carried on lofty
arches across, with sometimes a hold apparently so frail that one
involuntarily shudders. At a place called the Devil's Bridge, the Reuss
leaps about seventy feet in three or four cascades, sending up
continually a cloud of spray, while a wind created by the fall, blows
and whirls around, with a force that nearly lifts one from his feet.
Wordsworth has described the scene in the following lines:

    "Plunge with the Reuss embrowned by terror's breath,
    Where danger roofs the narrow walks of Death;
    By floods that, thundering from their dizzy height,
    Swell more gigantic on the steadfast sight,
    Black, drizzling crags, that, beaten by the din,
    Vibrate, us if a voice complained within,
    Loose hanging rocks, the Day's blessed eye that hide,
    And crosses reared to Death on every side!"

Beyond the Devil's Bridge, the mountains which nearly touched before,
interlock into each other, and a tunnel three hundred and seventy-five
feet long leads through the rock into the vale of Urseren, surrounded by
the Upper Alps. The little town of Andermatt lies in the middle of this
valley, which with the peaks around is covered with short,
yellowish-brown grass. We met near Amstegg a little Italian boy walking
home, from Germany, quite alone and without money, for we saw him give
his last kreutzer to a blind beggar along the road. We therefore took
him with us, as he was afraid to cross the St. Gothard alone.

After refreshing ourselves at Andermatt, we started, five in number,
including a German student, for the St. Gothard. Behind the village of
Hospiz, which stands at the bottom of the valley leading to Realp and
the Furca pass, the way commences, winding backwards and forwards,
higher and higher, through a valley covered with rocks, with the mighty
summits of the Alps around, untenanted save by the chamois and mountain
eagle. Not a tree was to be seen. The sides of the mountains were
covered with loose rocks waiting for the next torrent to wash them down,
and the tops were robed in eternal snow. A thick cloud rolled down over
us as we went on, following the diminishing brooks to their snowy source
in the peak of St. Gothard. We cut off the bends of the road by
footpaths up the rocks, which we ascended in single file, one of the
Americans _going ahead_ and little Pietro with his staff and bundle
bringing up the rear. The rarefied air we breathed, seven thousand feet
above the sea, was like exhilarating gas. We felt no fatigue, but ran
and shouted and threw snowballs, in the middle of August!

After three hours' walk we reached the two clear and silent lakes which
send their waters to the Adriatic and the North Sea. Here, as we looked
down the Italian side, the sky became clear; we saw the top of St.
Gothard many thousand feet above, and stretching to the south, the
summits of the mountains which guard the vales of the Ticino and the
Adda. The former monastery has been turned into an inn; there is,
however, a kind of church attached, attended by a single monk. It was so
cold that although late, we determined to descend to the first village.
The Italian side is very steep, and the road, called the Via Trimola, is
like a thread dropped down and constantly doubling back upon itself. The
deep chasms were filled with snow, although exposed to the full force of
the sun, and for a long distance there was scarcely a sign of
vegetation.

We thought as we went down, that every step was bringing us nearer to a
sunnier land--that the glories of Italy, which had so long lain in the
airy background of the future, would soon spread themselves before us in
their real or imagined beauty. Reaching at dusk the last height above
the vale of the Ticino, we saw the little village of Airolo with its
musical name, lying in a hollow of the mountains. A few minutes of
leaping, sliding and rolling, took us down the grassy declivity, and we
found we had descended from the top in an hour and a half, although the
distance by the road is nine miles! I need not say how glad we were to
relieve our trembling knees and exhausted limbs.

I have endeavored several times to give some idea of the sublimity of
the Alps, but words seem almost powerless to measure these mighty
mountains. No effort of the imagination could possibly equal their real
grandeur. I wish also to describe the _feelings_ inspired by being
among them,--feelings which can best be expressed through the warmer
medium of poetry.

    SONG OF THE ALP.
    I.

    I sit aloft on my thunder throne,
    And my voice of dread the nations own
       As I speak in storm below!
    The valleys quake with a breathless fear,
    When I hurl in wrath my icy spear
       And shake my locks of snow!
    When the avalanche forth like a tiger leaps,
      How the vassal-mountains quiver!
    And the storm that sweeps through the airy deeps
      Makes the hoary pine-wood shiver!
    Above them all, in a brighter air,
    I lift my forehead proud and bare,
    And the lengthened sweep of my forest-robe
    Trails down to the low and captured globe,
    Till its borders touch the dark green wave
    In whose soundless depths my feet I lave.
    The winds, unprisoned, around me blow,
    And terrible tempests whirl the snow;
    Rocks from their caverned beds are torn,
    And the blasted forest to heaven is borne;
    High through the din of the stormy band,
    Like misty giants the mountains stand,
    And their thunder-revel o'er-sounds the woe,
    That cries from the desolate vales below!
    I part the clouds with my lifted crown,
    Till the sun-ray slants on the glaciers down,
    And trembling men, in the valleys pale,
    Rejoice at the gleam of my icy mail!

    II.

    I wear a crown of the sunbeam's gold,
    With glacier-gems en my forehead old--
       A monarch crowned by God!
    What son of the servile earth may dare
    Such signs of a regal power to wear,
       While chained to her darkened sod?
    I know of a nobler and grander lore
      Than Time records on his crumbling pages,
    And the soul of my solitude teaches more
      Than the gathered deeds of perished ages!
    For I have ruled since Time began
    And wear no fetter made by man.
    I scorn the coward and craven race
    Who dwell around my mighty base,
    For they leave the lessons I grandly gave
    And bend to the yoke of the crouching slave.
    I shout aloud to the chainless skies;
    The stream through its falling foam replies,
    And my voice, like the sound of the surging sea,
    To the nations thunders: "_I am free!_"
    I spoke to Tell when a tyrant's hand
    Lay heavy and hard on his native land,
    And the spirit whose glory from mine he won
    Blessed the Alpine dwellers with Freedom's sun!
    The student-boy on the Gmunden-plain
    Heard my solemn voice, but he fought in vain;
    I called from the crags of the Passeir-glen,
    When the despot stood in my realm again,
    And Hofer sprang at the proud command
    And roused the men of the Tyrol land!

    III.

    I struggle up to the dim blue heaven,
    From the world, far down in whose breast are driven
        The props of my pillared throne;
    And the rosy fires of morning glow
    Like a glorious thought, on my brow of snow,
        While the vales are dark and lone!
    Ere twilight summons the first faint star,
    I seem to the nations who dwell afar
    Like a shadowy cloud, whose every fold
    The sunset dyes with its purest gold,
    And the soul mounts up through that gateway fair
    To try its wings in a loftier air!
    The finger of God on my brow is pressed--
    His spirit beats in my giant breast,
    And I breathe, as the endless ages roll,
    His silent words to the eager soul!
    I prompt the thoughts of the mighty mind,
    Who leaves his century far behind
    And speaks from the Future's sun-lit snow
    To the Present, that sleeps in its gloom below!
    I stand, unchanged, in creation's youth--
    A glorious type of Eternal Truth,
    That, free and pure, from its native skies
    Shines through Oppression's veil of lies,
    And lights the world's long-fettered sod
    With thoughts of Freedom and of God!

When, at night, I looked out of my chamber-window, the silver moon of
Italy, (for we fancied that her light was softer and that the skies were
already bluer) hung trembling above the fields of snow that stretched in
their wintry brilliance along the mountains around. I heard the roar of
the Ticino and the deepened sound of falling cascades, and thought, if I
were to take those waters for my guide, to what glorious places they
would lead me!

We left Airolo early the next morning, to continue our journey down the
valley of the Ticino. The mists and clouds of Switzerland were exchanged
for a sky of the purest blue, and we felt, for the first time in ten
days, uncomfortably warm. The mountains which flank the Alps on this
side, are still giants--lofty and bare, and covered with snow in many
places. The limit of the German dialect is on the summit of St. Gothard,
and the peasants saluted us with a "_buon giorno_" as they passed. This,
with the clearness of the skies and the warmth of the air, made us feel
that Italy was growing nearer.

The mountains are covered with forests of dark pine, and many beautiful
cascades come tumbling over the rocks in their haste to join the Ticino.
One of these was so strangely beautiful, that I cannot pass it without a
particular description. We saw it soon after leaving Airolo, on the
opposite side of the valley. A stream of considerable size comes down
the mountain, leaping from crag to crag till within forty or fifty feet
of the bottom, where it is caught in a hollow rock, and flung upwards
into the air, forming a beautiful arch as it falls out into the valley.
As it is whirled up thus, feathery curls of spray are constantly driven
off and seem to wave round it like the fibres on an ostrich plume. The
sun shining through, gave it a sparry brilliance which was perfectly
magnificent. If I were an artist, I would give much for such a new form
of beauty.

On our first day's journey we passed through two terrific mountain
gorges, almost equalling in grandeur the defile of the "Devil's Bridge."
The Ticino, in its course to Lago Maggiore has to make a descent of
nearly three thousand feet, passing through three valleys, which lie
like terraces, one below the other. In its course from one to the other,
it has to force its way down in twenty cataracts through a cleft in the
mountains. The road, constructed with the utmost labor, threads these
dark chasms, sometimes carried in a tunnel through the rock, sometimes
passing on arches above the boiling flood. The precipices of bare rock
rise far above and render the way difficult and dangerous. I here
noticed another very beautiful effect of the water, perhaps attributable
to some mineral substance it contained. The spray and foam thrown up in
the dashing of the vexed current, was of a light, delicate pink,
although the stream itself was a soft blue; and the contrast of these
two colors was very remarkable.

As we kept on, however, there was a very perceptible change in the
scenery. The gloomy pines disappeared and the mountains were covered, in
their stead, with picturesque chesnut trees, with leaves of a shining
green. The grass and vegetation was much more luxuriant than on the
other side of the Alps, and fields of maize and mulberry orchards
covered the valley. We saw the people busy at work reeling silk in the
villages. Every mile we advanced made a sensible change in the
vegetation. The chesnuts were larger, the maize higher, the few
straggling grape-vines increased into bowers and vineyards, while the
gardens were filled with plum, pear and fig-trees, and the stands of
delicious fruit which we saw in the villages, gave us promise of the
luxuriance that was to come.

The vineyards are much more beautiful than the German fields of stakes.
The vines are not trimmed, but grow from year to year over a frame
higher than the head, supported through the whole field on stone
pillars. They interlace and form a complete leafy screen, while the
clusters hang below. The light came dimly through the green, transparent
leaves, and nothing was wanting to make them real bowers of Arcadia.
Although we were still in Switzerland, the people began to have that
lazy, indolent look which characterizes the Italians; most of the
occupations were carried on in the open air, and brown-robed, sandalled
friars were going about from house to house, collecting money and
provisions for their support.

We passed Faidò and Giornico, near which last village are the remains of
an old castle, supposed to have been built by the ancient Gauls, and
stopped for the night at Cresciano, which being entirely Italian, we had
an opportunity to put in practice the few words we had picked up from
Pietro. The little fellow parted from us with regret a few hours before,
at Biasco, where he had relations. The rustic landlord at Cresciano was
an honest young fellow, who tried to serve us as well as he could, but
we made some ludicrous mistakes through our ignorance of the language.

Three hours' walk brought us to Bellinzona, the capital of the canton.
Before reaching it, our road joined that of the Splügen which comes down
through the valley of Bernardino. From the bridge where the junction
takes place we had a triple view, whose grandeur took me by surprise,
even after coming from Switzerland. We stood at the union of three
valleys--that leading to St. Gothard, terminated by the glaciers of the
Bernese Oberland, that running off obliquely to the Splügen, and finally
the broad vale of the Ticino, extending to Lago Maggiore, whose purple
mountains closed the vista. Each valley was perhaps two miles broad and
from twenty to thirty long, and the mountains that enclosed them from
five to seven thousand feet in height, so you may perhaps form some idea
what a view down three such avenues in this Alpine temple would be.
Bellinzona is romantically situated, on a slight eminence, with three
castles to defend it, with those square turreted towers and battlements,
which remind one involuntarily of the days of the Goths and Vandals.

We left Bellinzona at noon, and saw, soon after, from an eminence, the
blue line of Lago Maggiore stretched across the bottom of the valley. We
saw sunset fade away over the lake, but it was clouded, and did not
realize my ideal of such a scene in Italy. A band of wild Italians
paraded up and down the village, drawing one of their number in a
hand-cart. They made a great noise with a drum and trumpet, and were
received everywhere with shouts of laughter. A great jug of wine was not
wanting, and the whole seemed to me a very characteristic scene.

We were early awakened at Magadino, at the head of Lago Maggiore, and
after swallowing a hasty breakfast, went on board the steamboat "San
Carlo," for Sesto Calende. We got under way at six o'clock, and were
soon in motion over the crystal mirror. The water is of the most lovely
green hue, and so transparent that we seemed to bo floating in mid-air.
Another heaven arched far below us; other chains of mountains joined
their bases to those which surrounded the lake, and the mirrored
cascades leaped upward to meet their originals at the surface. It may be
because I have seen it more recently, that the water of Lago Maggiore
appears to be the most beautiful in the world. I was delighted with the
Scotch lakes, and enraptured with the Traunsee and "Zurich's waters,"
but this last exceeds them both. I am now incapable of any stronger
feeling, until I see the Egean from the Grecian Isles.

The morning was cloudy, and the white wreaths hung low on the mountains,
whose rocky sides were covered every where with the rank and luxuriant
growth of this climate. As we advanced further over this glorious
mirror, the houses became more Italian-like; the lower stories rested on
arched passages, and the windows were open, without glass, while in the
gardens stood the solemn, graceful cypress, and vines, heavy with
ripening grapes, hung from bough to bough through the mulberry orchards.
Half-way down, in a broad bay, which receives the waters of a stream
that comes down with the Simplon, are the celebrated Borromean Islands.
They are four in number, and seem to float like fairy creations on the
water, while the lofty hills form a background whose grandeur enhances
by contrast their exquisite beauty. There was something in the scene
that reminded me of Claude Melnotte's description of his home, by
Bulwer, and like the lady of Lyons, I answer readily, "I like the
picture."

On passing by Isola Madre, we could see the roses in its terraced
gardens and the broad-leaved aloes clinging to the rocks. Isola Bella,
the loveliest of them all, as its name denotes, was farther off; it rose
like a pyramid from the water, terrace above terrace to the summit, and
its gardens of never fading foliage, with the glorious panorama around,
might make it a paradise, if life were to be dreamed away. On the
northern side of the bay lies a large town (I forget its name,) with a
lofty Romanesque tower, and noble mountains sweep around as if to shut
out the world from such a scene. The sea was perfectly calm, and groves
and gardens slept mirrored in the dark green wave, while the Alps rose
afar through the dim, cloudy air. Towards the other end the hills sink
lower, and slope off into the plains of Lombardy. Near Arona, on the
western side, is a large monastery, overlooking the lower part of the
lake. Beside it, on a hill, is a colossal statue of San Carlo Borromeo,
who gave his name to the lovely islands above.

After a seven hours' passage, we ran into Sesto Calende, at the foot of
the lake. Here, passengers and baggage were tumbled promiscuously on
shore, the latter gathered into the office to be examined, and the
former left at liberty to ramble about an hour until their passports
could be signed. We employed the time in trying the flavor of the grapes
and peaches of Lombardy, and looking at the groups of travelers who had
come down from the Alps with the annual avalanche at this season. The
custom house officers were extremely civil and obliging, as they did not
think necessary to examine our knapsacks, and our passports being soon
signed, we were at liberty to enter again into the dominions of His
Majesty of Austria. Our companion, the German, whose feet could carry
him no further, took a seat on the top of a diligence for Milan; _we_
left Sesto Calende on foot, and plunged into the cloud of dust which was
whirling towards the capital of Northern Italy.

Being now really in the "sunny land," we looked on the scenery with a
deep interest. The first thing that struck me was a resemblance to
America in the fields of Indian corn, and the rank growth of weeds by
the roadside. The mulberry trees and hedges, too, looked quite familiar,
coming as we did, from fenceless and hedgeless Germany. But here the
resemblance ceased. The people were coarse, ignorant and savage-looking,
the villages remarkable for nothing except the contrast between splendid
churches and miserable, dirty houses, while the luxurious palaces and
grounds of the rich noblemen formed a still greater contrast to the
poverty of the people. I noticed also that if the latter are as lazy as
they are said to be, they make their horses work for them, as in a walk
of a few hours yesterday after noon, we saw two horses drawing heavy
loads, drop down apparently dead, and several others seemed nearly ready
to do the same.

We spent the night at the little village of Casina, about sixteen miles
from Milan, and here made our first experience in the honesty of Italian
inns. We had taken the precaution to inquire beforehand the price of a
bed; but it seemed unnecessary and unpleasant, as well as evincing a
mistrustful spirit, to do the same with every article we asked for, so
we concluded to leave it to the host's conscience not to overcharge us.
Imagine our astonishment, however, when at starting, a bill was
presented to us, in which the smallest articles were set down at three
or four times their value. We remonstrated, hut to little purpose; the
fellow knew scarcely any French, and we as little Italian, so rather
than lose time or temper, we paid what he demanded and went on, leaving
him to laugh at the successful imposition. The experience was of value
to us, however, and it may serve as a warning to some future traveler.

About noon, the road turned into a broad and beautiful avenue of
poplars, down which we saw, at a distance, the triumphal arch
terminating the Simplon road, which we had followed from Sesto Calende.
Beyond it rose the slight and airy pinnacle of the Duomo. We passed by
the exquisite structure, gave up our passports at the gates, traversed
the broad Piazza d'Armi, and found ourselves at liberty to choose one of
the dozen streets that led into the heart of the city.




CHAPTER XXXI.

MILAN.


_Aug. 21._--While finding our way at random to the "Pension Suisse,"
whither we had been directed by a German gentleman, we were agreeably
impressed with the gaiety and bustle of Milan. The shops and stores are
all open to the street, so that the city resembles a great bazaar. It
has an odd look to see blacksmiths, tailors and shoemakers working
unconcernedly in the open air, with crowds continually passing before
them. The streets are filled with venders of fruit, who call out the
names with a long, distressing cry, like that of a person in great
agony. Organ-grinders parade constantly about and snatches of songs are
heard among the gay crowd, on every side.

In this lively, noisy Italian city, nearly all there is to see may be
comprised in four things: the Duomo, the triumphal arch over the
Simplon, La Scala and the Picture Gallery. The first alone is more
interesting than many an entire city. We went there yesterday afternoon
soon after reaching here. It stands in an irregular open place, closely
hemmed in by houses on two sides, so that it can be seen to advantage
from only one point. It is a mixture of the Gothic and Romanesque
styles; the body of the structure is entirely covered with statues and
richly wrought sculpture, with needle-like spires of white marble rising
up from every corner. But of the exquisite, airy look of the whole mass,
although so solid and vast, it is impossible to convey an idea. It
appears like some fabric of frost-work which winter traces on the
window-panes. There is a unity of beauty about the whole, which the eye
takes in with a feeling of perfect and satisfied delight.

Ascending the marble steps which lead to the front, I lifted the folds
of the heavy curtain and entered. What a glorious aisle! The mighty
pillars support a magnificent arched ceiling, painted to resemble
fretwork, and the little light that falls through the small windows
above, enters tinged with a dim golden hue. A feeling of solemn awe
comes over one as he steps with a hushed tread along the colored marble
floor, and measures the massive columns till they blend with the
gorgeous arches above. There are four rows of these, nearly fifty in
all, and when I state that they are eight feet in diameter, and sixty or
seventy in height, some idea may be formed of the grandeur of the
building. Imagine the Girard College, at Philadelphia, turned into one
great hall, with four rows of pillars, equal in size to those around it,
reaching to its roof, and you will have a rough sketch of the interior
of the Duomo.

In the centre of the cross is a light and beautiful dome; he who will
stand under this, and look down the broad middle aisle to the entrance,
has one of the sublimest vistas to be found in the world. The choir has
three enormous windows, covered with dazzling paintings, and the ceiling
is of marble and silver. There are gratings under the high altar, by
looking into which, I could see a dark, lonely chamber below, where one
or two feeble lamps showed a circle of praying-places. It was probably a
funeral vault, which persons visited to pray for the repose of their
friends' souls. The Duomo is not yet entirely finished, the workmen
being still employed in various parts, but it is said, that when
completed there will be four thousand statues on the different parts of
it.

The design of the Duomo is said to be taken from Monte Rosa, one of the
loftiest peaks of the Alps. Its hundreds of sculptured pinnacles, rising
from every part of the body of the church, certainly bear a striking
resemblance to the splintered ice-crags of Savoy. Thus we see how Art,
mighty and endless in her forms though she be, is in every thing but the
child of Nature. Her most divine conceptions are but copies of objects
which we behold every day. The faultless beauty of the Corinthian
capital--the springing and intermingling arches of the Gothic aisle--the
pillared portico or the massive and sky-piercing pyramid--are but
attempts at reproducing, by the studied regularity of Art, the
ever-varied and ever-beautiful forms of mountain, rock and forest. But
there is oftentimes a more thrilling sensation of enjoyment produced by
the creations of man's hand and intellect than the grander effects of
Nature, existing constantly before our eyes. It would seem as if man
marvelled more at his own work than at the work of the Power which
created him.

The streets of Milan abound with priests in their cocked hats and long
black robes. They all have the same solemn air, and seem to go about
like beings shut out from all communion with pleasure. No sight lately
has saddened me so much as to see a bright, beautiful boy, of twelve or
thirteen years, in those gloomy garments. Poor child! he little knows
now what he may hav