PART II.—1842–1843.

LETTER I.

Steam Voyage to Amsterdam.—Rubens’ Picture of the Descent from the

Cross.—Various

Misadventures.—Liege.—Cologne.—Coblentz.—Mayence.—Francfort.

FRANCFORT, JUNE, 1842.

I have delayed writing hitherto—for this is our first _stazion_. I know

not of what clay those persons are made who write on board steamers, or

before going to bed, when they reach an inn, after a long day’s journey.

I rather disbelieve in such achievements. A date or reference may be put

down; but during a voyage, I am at first too interested, and then too

tired; and at night, on arriving, I confess, supper and the ceremonial

of retiring to rest, are exertions almost too much for me: I cannot do

more. And then we have travelled amidst a hurricane of misfortunes—money

and other property disappearing under the malignant influence of the

Belgian railroad and some rogue at the Hotel at Liege. Our missing

luggage has been restored, but we have found no remedy for the loss of

our money. Sixteen pounds were seized upon at one fell swoop. Imagine

such an accident happening when we were abroad, two years ago! At

present, it is not pleasant; but it is not fatal, as it would then have

been.

Our last week in England was most delightfully spent at the seat of a

friend near Southampton, on the skirts of the New Forest. A little quiet

sailing in a yacht; drives in a beautiful neighbourhood, strolling about

the grounds; the rites of good old English hospitality—varied the day.

Our host was all kindness, and added the crowning grace of being really

sorry when we departed; his saddened countenance, as the engine whistled

and we were whirled towards London, gave us the flattering assurance

that we were regretted; and we sincerely returned the compliment.

We spent a day or two in London, taking leave of a few old friends; and

on Sunday, 12th of June, we embarked on board the “Wilberforce,” for

Antwerp. I hate and dread the sea; having suffered—oh, what suffering it

is!—how absorbing!—how degrading!—how without remedy! And then to wish

for _terra firma_—only so much as the feet will stand upon: thus no

longer to be the abject victim of the antipathetic element—a speck of

rock, one-foot-by-one, would not that suffice to stand upon, and be

_still_? I speak of times past. The mighty Power had, when trusting to

its awful mutability, shewn itself merciful as great, as I crossed and

re-crossed from and to Dover, in 1840. But this was a longer voyage; and

as we steamed down the river, the wind was directly adverse, and felt

strong. The sea looked dreary; and the evening set in gray, cold, and

unpleasant. I was the last passenger that kept on deck. About ten

o’clock, the increasing spray drove me down. However, I escaped the

doleful extremity of seasickness, and slept till morning, when the slow

waters of the Scheldt received us. The sun was bright; but nothing can

adorn with beauty the low, nearly invisible banks of an almost Dutch

river; and there was no busy craft to enliven the scene. It is strange

to think how a scene, in itself uninteresting, becomes agreeable to look

at in a picture, from the truth with which it is depicted, and a

perfection of colouring which at once contrasts and harmonises the hues

of sky and water.

Though it may be done a thousand times, still English people must always

experience a strange sensation when they disembark on a foreign strand,

and find every familiar object startlingly changed: but, if strange, it

is very pleasing. I have a passionate love of travelling. Add to this, I

suffer in my health, and can no longer apply to my ordinary employments.

Travelling is occupation as well as amusement, and I firmly believe that

renewed health will be the result of frequent change of place.

Besides, what can be so delightful as the perpetual novelty—the

exhaustless current of new ideas suggested by travelling? We read, to

gather thought and knowledge; travelling is a book of the Creator’s own

writing, and imparts sublimer wisdom than the printed words of man. Were

I exiled perforce, I might repine, for the heart naturally yearns for

_home_. But to adorn that home with recollections; to fly abroad from

the hive, like the bee, and return laden with the sweets of

travel—scenes, which haunt the eye—wild adventures, that enliven the

imagination—knowledge, to enlighten and free the mind from clinging,

deadening prejudices—a wider circle of sympathy with our

fellow-creatures;—these are the uses of travel, for which I am convinced

every one is the better and the happier.

JUNE 13TH.

We landed on the quay at Antwerp, and walked to the hotel—a long walk,

under a hot sun. After refreshing ourselves by a _toilette_, we hastened

to the Cathedral—for we had no time to spare—to view the Descent from

the Cross, the _chef-d’œuvre_ of Rubens. Several people were being

admitted as we arrived; but, with a rudeness of gesture and tone that

far surpassed Westminster, the door was pushed to, and held jealously

ajar, till we had paid a few _sous_, the price of entrance. The interior

is spacious and lofty, and remarkable for its simplicity and its being

totally unencumbered by screens of wood or stone. The Descent from the

Cross is a very fine picture. You may remember that Sir Joshua Reynolds,

in his Lectures, mentions the boldness of the artist in enveloping the

dead body with a white cloth. A painter, less sure of his powers, would

have relieved the livid hues of death by a dark background: the white

sheet, under the pencil of Rubens, contrasts yet more fearfully with the

livid tints of the corpse.

This is all we saw of Antwerp—this half hour spent in the lofty nave and

the dim aisles of the Cathedral. Do not despise us! Some day, I mean to

make a tour of Belgium, the Netherlands, and Holland. But we found it

quite impossible to combine sightseeing at the commencement of our

journey with our intention of proceeding as far as Italy. You know what

it is that enables the tourist to loiter on his way; and you know how

slenderly we are provided with the same. I have read, somewhere, the

remark of a French lady, expressive of her astonishment at the English

mania for travelling. She understood, she said, rich people, with

comfortable carriages, amusing themselves thus; but how women, who can

command the comforts of an ordinary English house, could leave the same,

and by _diligence_ and _voiturier_, harassed and fatigued, should find

pleasure in exposing themselves to a thousand annoyances and privations,

surprised her beyond measure. I have travelled in both ways. To

undertake the last, requires a good deal of energy and an indefatigable

love of seeing yet more and more of the surface of this fair globe,

which, like all other passions or inclinations, must spring naturally

from the heart, and cannot be understood except by those who share it.

After having been confined many a long year in our island, I broke from

my chains in 1840, and encountered very rough travelling. I did not find

it more fatiguing than the more luxurious species, and enjoyed as much

as I had ever done its pleasures. Now I have set out again, my choice

being between staying at home and travelling as I could. I preferred,

very far, the latter: I should prefer it to-morrow. Still, I do not deny

that I did repine much, on various occasions, that I could not linger

longer on my way, and visit a thousand places left unvisited. I hope to

go to them another time. What I did see is all gain; and I ought rather

to rejoice in the spirit of enterprise that enabled me to see so much,

than to grumble at the smallness of the means that forced me to see so

little.

We returned to dine at the _table d’hôte_, and were then hurried into

the omnibus, waiting to take us to the railway. I have always avoided

this mode of reaching the terminus in England, as too full of confusion;

and I cannot tell why I changed my notion on the subject here abroad. I

repented heartily afterwards, and renewed my resolve always to reach the

station in a private conveyance. Just as we left the hotel, our three

passports were put into our hands, one a piece: in the hurry I dropped

mine—the first loss of a day, rendered memorable by many. On our

arrival, everybody in the various omnibuses that arrived at the same

time, at once went mad from hurry and confusion. Loss the second

occurred here. M—— forgot her handbasket, containing a lady’s-maid’s

treasures for a journey: many things of English birth were gone

irreparably. A noisy crowd surrounded one window of the station at the

terminus, eager for tickets, as if the train would set off without them.

Before another door was piled all the luggage brought by all the

omnibuses. It was only admitted piecemeal; and the selection of the

articles belonging to each traveller was a scene of indescribable

confusion. We none of us understood German—confession of shame! I had

taken lessons in the winter; but my health prevented my making any

progress. French was of little avail. We had divided our forces, to

master the difficulties we encountered. K—— went for the tickets; P——

with the luggage, and I remained to wonder and expect. After a time, the

noise ceased, the crowd disappeared, a bell rung, I had got my ticket,

and, the gates being open, I walked into the yard. I found the carriages

nearly full, and ready to start—it seemed very odd. My companions had

left me, and had gone to look after the luggage. I saw nobody, so I took

my seat in a carriage, and in a few seconds, we started.

The carriages are inconvenient, bearing no similitude, indeed, to

carriages, but are small rooms or cells, boxed off into eight seats, and

placed on a sort of platform. One merit they possessed—we were not

locked in; there was no door, and the egress from the front was easy to

the platform, and that was scarcely raised from the ground. The

carriages were very full, the heat excessive; and several unruly

children did not add to our comfort. At Malines (I think it was), we

were to be transferred to another train: the one in which we commenced

our journey going on to Brussels. Changing carriages is always a

tiresome operation. I alighted in the middle of a large square, and was

glad to find my companions safely assembled. Our luggage was turned out

here; and, as we waited some time before we were taken up again, we

amused ourselves with examining our property. With dismay, we discovered

that two cloaks and a carpet-bag were missing. Certainly, for travellers

somewhat experienced, our conduct appeared disgraceful. P——, who had

passed the luggage, had witnessed that all was weighed; but he had not

been allowed to remain in the weighing-room to see the things off, and

his want of German had rendered the task difficult.

On our arrival at Liege, another scene of confusion at the unloading

ensued. It must be said, however, that their method was good, and the

noise arose from the numbers of travellers, and their exceeding

vociferations. On weighing the luggage, they paste a piece of paper on

each article, inscribed with a number—the same number for all the goods

belonging to one name; and to this is added the number of articles. Thus

all our things were marked “21,” and we had a paper given us that gave

us a claim to nine articles marked “21.” The men, as they unload, cry

out the number pasted on the articles; and the passengers, with their

papers in their hands, claim their own. Seven only, however, appeared

for us; the cloaks and the carpet-bag were missing. Waiting, in hopes

that these might at last be forthcoming, detained us among the last. The

omnibuses were nearly full; no carriages, nor post-horses for the

carriages on the train, nor any other means of getting to Liege, were to

be found. We got places, and we heard afterwards, that the confusion in

some of the omnibuses had arisen to a scuffle. This we escaped.

Murray’s Hand-book was our guide: usually an admirable one. Among other

useful information, none is more satisfactory to the traveller than to

know the best hotel in a town. Murray directed us to the Aigle Noire,

which we found large, clean, and pleasant.

JUNE 14TH.

Morning brought with it the discovery of another loss:—“_Encore un objêt

de perdu!_”—and this _objêt_ was more serious and irreparable than our

former. We had changed what English bank notes we had at Antwerp, for

German gold. My companions counted the contents of their purses—£8 in

each. It so happened that they could not get lodged separately, and they

occupied a double-bedded room. After counting their money, they left

their purses on a large table in the middle of the room: they did not

lock their door. In the morning, the door was ajar, and the purses gone.

Fortunately, they had placed their watches nearer to them. Perhaps it

was the boots of the hotel, who, coming in for their clothes, was

tempted by the sight of their glittering purses so easily to be taken.

However it may be, they were gone. The master of the hotel behaved

excessively ill; talked of sending for the _Maire_, to _constater_ our

loss, but professed his disbelief in our story; travellers, he declared,

never leave their purses on a table, and always lock their door. We did

nothing. We should probably have been tempted to do something; but we

had to record our missing articles, and to arrange for their being sent

after us. I, too, had dropped my passport. “_Mais, Madame, vous êtes

vraiment en malheur_,” said the daughter of the hotel-keeper, who was as

civil as her father was rude. We were; so we could only say—or rather, I

said—in the Greek fashion: “Welcome this evil, so that it be the only

one!” I said it from my heart; for, alas! I ever live with a dark shadow

hovering near me. One whose life has been stained by tragedy can never

regain a healthy tone of mind—if it be healthy—that is consonant to the

laws of human life, not to fear for those we love. I am haunted by

terror. It stalks beside me by day, and whispers to me, in dreams, at

night. But this is being very tragical, _apropos_ of our stolen money.

We hired a carriage to take us to Aix-la-Chapelle. It was a pleasant

drive: the country is varied into hill and dale, and is very pretty.

About five in the evening we arrived at the railway station, without

entering the town of Aix-la-Chapelle, which looked agreeably placed in a

valley encircled by hills. The works for the railroad are in full

progress, and the mounds are on a vast scale. They spoil rather the

beauty of a landscape; yet a railroad gives such promise of change and

novelty to the traveller—transporting us at once from the known to the

unknown—that, in spite of all that can be said against them, I delight

to see or hear of them.

Everything connected with travelling in Prussia is in the hands of

Government, and admirably managed. The carriages on this railroad were

of the usual construction, and very comfortable. We could not see much

of the country as we were whisked through it: the little we could glance

at appeared to deserve visiting at leisure. In a very short time we

arrived at Cologne, and drove at once to an hotel, near the river. We

arrived too late—we departed too early—to see anything of Cologne. Do

not despise us: I intend to go there again.

JUNE 15TH.

During my last journey, I had not seen the portion of the Rhine between

Cologne and Coblentz, and one of my companions had never visited these

scenes. We gazed, therefore, with eager curiosity, as at each succeeding

mile the river became more majestic, its shores more picturesque; and

every hour of the day brought its store of delight to the eye. One or

two chance acquaintance on board the steamer were agreeable; and a few

incidents of travel, such as are familiar to wanderers, and form the

history of their days, amused us. The man who acted as steward on the

steamer, a thin, pale, short, insignificant-looking fellow, had taken

his bill to him of our party whom, I suppose, long experience in such

matters had led him to divine was the most _insouciant_. The bill was

paid without a remark, and then brought to me. I was startled at its

amount, and examined it. First I cast it up, and found an overcharge in

the addition. This was pointed out to the man. He acknowledged it very

_debonairely_. “_Ah, oui, je le vois, c’est juste_;” and he refunded.

Still the bill was large; and I showed it to a lady on board, who had

paid hers, and had mentioned the moderation of the charges. I found that

the man had charged us each half a florin too much for dinner. Again the

bill was taken to him. This time he was longer in being convinced; but

when our authority was mentioned, with a look of sudden enlightenment,

he exclaimed:—“_Madame, vous avez parfaitement raison_,” and refunded.

But this was not all: my maid came to me, to say she hoped I had not

paid for her, as she had paid for herself. True enough, she was charged

for in our bill. We were almost ashamed to apply again; but a sense of

public justice prevailed, and again we asked for our money back. In this

instance, the man yielded at once. Clasping his forehead, he

exclaimed:—“_Mon Dieu! que je suis bête!_” and repaid us. In the evening

of this day, as K—— was gazing on the splendour of the setting sun, the

false steward stood beside him, sharing the rapture, and

exclaimed:—“_N’est ce pas, Monsieur, que c’est magnifique!_”

We passed the junction of the Moselle with the Rhine, and under the rock

of Ehrenbreitstein; and, landing, proceeded to the Hotel of Bellevue,

where we had lodged for a night, very comfortably, two years before.

You know the fair town of Coblentz—its wide, white, clean, rather

dull-looking streets: you know the monument erected by French vanity at

the time of Napoleon’s invasion of Russia, to commemorate with pompous

vauntings an expedition that caused his downfall. Even before the

carving of the empty boast had been overspread by a little dust, the

Commandant of the Russian army, pursuing the flying invader, had the

power, but disdained to erase it; adding only in the style of the

Emperor’s passports—“_Vu et approuvé par nous, Commandant Russe, de la

ville de Coblence, Janvier 1^{er}, 1814._” You know the lofty rock and

impregnable fortress of Ehrenbreitstein, which rises majestically on the

opposite bank of the river, and looks proudly down on old Father Rhine

and its picturesque assemblage of guardian hills.

JUNE 16TH.

We left Coblentz at eight in the morning, and embarked in a larger and

more convenient boat. We left here our accidental acquaintance who had

made the voyage in the “Wilberforce” with us, and kept on the same way

ever since—they were bound for Wiesbaden, and meant to linger awhile on

the banks of the Rhine. By some chance few travellers seemed to be

making the voyage just now. The only English were a family, who had

frequently been this route, and so despised it that the lady remained in

a close carriage on deck, with the blinds drawn down, all day.

I believe I am nearly the first English person, who many years ago made

a wild, venturous voyage, since called hacknied;—when in an open

flat-bottomed sort of barge we were borne down the rapid stream,

sleeping at night under the starry canopy, the boat tethered to a willow

on the banks; and when we changed for a more commodious bark, how rude

it was, and how ill-conducted, as it drifted, frequently turning round

and round, and was carried down by the sheer force of the stream; and

what uncouth animals were with us, forming a fearful contrast between

their drunken brutalities and the scene of enchantment around. Two years

ago I renewed my acquaintance with the Rhine, and emerging on it from

the Moselle, it gained in dignity by contrast with the banks of a river

only less beautiful. Then the diorama, as it were, of tower-crowned crag

and vine-clad hills—of ruined castle, fallen abbey, and time-honoured

battlements, sufficed to enchain the attention and satisfy the

imagination; and now—was I really _blasée_, and did my fancy no longer

warm as I looked around? No; but I wanted more: I had seen enough of the

Rhine, as a _picture_, all that the steam-voyager sees;—I desired to

penetrate the ravines, to scale the heights, to linger among the ruins,

to hear still more of its legends, and visit every romantic spot. I

shall be very glad some summer of my future life to familiarise myself

with the treasure of delight easily gathered by a wanderer on these

banks; but as it is—on, on, the Castle of Stolzenfels, restored by the

present King of Prussia when Crown Prince, is passed,—but I will not

make a list of names, to be found in a guide-book: on we went rapidly,

now catching sight of, passing, and losing in distance the “castled

crags,”—the romantic hills of the glorious Rhine.

I looked with pleasure also on the lower uplands, with their vineyards.

Surely, the inhabitants of this region worship the sun. On one side,

that of shadow, forest-trees clothe the ravines, and pine woods crown

the mountains—a beautiful but poor growth. On the other, the open,

sun-visited banks are rich in vines, whose vintage is almost the best in

the world. What a store of merry hours clusters together with the grapes

on those old snake-like roots; and how much glittering coin is pressed

out from those clusters of fruit into the pockets of their owners. We

had a specimen of the first part of its power; some young Germans on

board got gloriously tipsy, and called for another, and yet another

bottle—becoming with every glass more affectionate and happy.

On this occasion we arrived at Mayence in time to proceed to Francfort

the same evening; more than in time; when we reached the station we

found the train would not start for three hours. My companions passed

the interval in viewing the Cathedral and other sights at Mayence. Most

unfortunately, I was so indisposed as to be obliged to remain at the

waiting-room of the station. O Life! O Time!—how dear and valuable are

ye in the aggregate; how still more dear and valuable are certain

gem-like portions that at intervals fall to our lot—treasures in

themselves, dearly prized and hoarded; but how contemptible seems a

shred torn off and unusable; such as these three hours spent on a

horse-hair incommodious chair, in the bare dull waiting-room, incapable

from illness of putting to use the avenues to perception; and uneasy and

wearied, in no humour to exercise the jaded powers of the soul. Such

three hours slowly dragged themselves along; at last we took our places,

and were whirled to Francfort.

We have betaken ourselves as before to the Hôtel de Russie. We have

better rooms, for then the hotel was full, and now it is empty; it was

about the same season of the year; but there appears a capricious reflux

in the tide of travellers, and we have encountered few. You know the

peculiar physiognomy of these German hotels; more comfortable than

perhaps any others in the world; characterised by order, comfort, and

civility; also at this one in particular, by an excellent table; the

cook is renowned; people come to the _table d’hôte_, for the sake of the

dinner; the price whereof is a thaler, or three shillings.

Good-night. I will tell you more to-morrow of our plans and future

proceedings. I cannot now, for I have not the slightest idea at present

what they will be.

18TH JUNE.

Madame de Sevigné sagely remarks, that “nothing seems to impede the

exercise of our free will so much as not having a paramount motive to

urge us one way or the other.” Here lies, in a great measure, our

difficulty: we intend spending this next winter at Florence, but we have

no fixed idea as to how to pass the summer. I incline to some German

Bath, as I think it would benefit my health. I should like the Tyrol—any

part of the world where the scenery is beautiful; but then I want a few

months of peace, and not to be near a lake, so to live in one ecstasy of

fear. We find it very difficult to decide, and have determined meanwhile

to visit Kissingen. I have heard that it is a pleasant place, very

prettily situated. I have an idea that the waters will benefit me; at

least it is something new: we penetrate at once into Germany. It is

true, we do not understand German; but where better learn a language

than in its native country?

“What’s in a name!”—You know the quotation: it applies to things known;

to things unknown, a name is often everything: on me it has a powerful

effect; and many hours of extreme pleasure have derived their zest

simply from a name; and now a name is drawing me on—Germany—vast, unseen

Germany! whence has poured forth nearly the whole population of the

present civilised world,—a world not gifted, like the ancient, with a

subtle organisation which enabled them to create the beauty, which we do

little more than admire—nor endowed with that instinctive grace that

moulded even every stone which the Greeks touched into imperishable

types of loveliness—nor with that vivacious imagination that peopled the

unseen universe with an endless variety of beautiful creations,—but the

parent of a race in which women are respected—a race that loves justice

and truth—whose powers of thought are, if slow, yet profound, and, in

their way, creative. Tacitus’s Germany—a land of forests and heroes.

Luther’s Germany, in which sprung up the Reformation, giving freedom to

the souls of men. The land of Schiller and Goëthe. Do you remember La

Motte Fouqué’s Magic Ring—and the old Baron, sitting in his ancestral

hall, where banners waved and armour clashed, and the wild winds

whispered prophecies, and Power brooded ready to fly abroad and possess

the world? Such a mysterious shape is Germany to me. And this, too, is

the stage on which Napoleon’s imperial drama drew to a close. What

oceans of human blood have drenched the soil of Germany even since my

birth. Since I love the mysterious, the unknown, the wild, the renowned,

you will not wonder that I feel drawn on step by step into the heart of

Germany. It will doubtless continue a mysterious and unknown region,

since we cannot speak its language; but its cities and its villages will

no longer be dim shadows merely; substance and reality will replace

misty imaginings; my rambles will be something novel; of the people whom

I cannot understand, I shall have so little to say. A mighty outline is

all I can present, if, indeed, I do penetrate at all into its recesses.

But our plans are so vague, that really, till something is done, I

scarcely can conjecture what we may do.

There is nothing very amusing at Francfort for a passing visitor. This

time, however, we did see Dannecker’s Ariadne. It is among the best

modern statues representing a woman. She is sitting on, and being

carried along by, a panther. Her attitude is of repose, of enjoyment:

there is something harsh in the face, which I do not like; but there is

softness and roundness in the limbs; nothing angular; nor anything

narrow or pared away like Canova’s female figures. This statue is one in

the collection of Mr. Bethman; being the gem of his Gallery, it has a

room to itself, and by shutting shutters and drawing down a crimson

blind, the statue is seen clad in roseate light, beaming amidst

darkness. Such arts for showing off marbles have been termed

meretricious; but the finest statues of the Romans were found in

chambers where the light of day never entered, and were therefore

illuminated artificially.

Goëthe was born at Francfort, and we saw the outside of the house with

the three prophetic lyres over the door.

My companions have just returned from the opera; they say that “they

found a good orchestra, and singers with very tolerable voices, but

mortally ugly, and their action totally devoid of grace; so that it

would be much better if they did not ape it, as their abortive attempts

make the deficiency more glaring.” So it was, you may remember, with the

company we had in London, with the exception of Staudigl, whose voice

and style is full of elegance as well as power. In spite of the

enchantment of the _Zauberflaüte_, how happy and at home I felt at the

Italian Opera, after several visits to that of their rivals in the art.

We have engaged a _voiturier_ to take us to Kissingen in two days, a

distance of about eighty miles. With a thrill of pleasure I feel I am

going to scenes entirely new. I am not sure that I am rich enough for

such an enterprise: yet I suspect much of the half eager, half timid

feeling that urges me on, arises from our being comparatively poor,—all

is so easy and same to the wealthy. As it is, there is the dangerous

attraction of forbidden fruit in our wanderings.—Adieu.

LETTER II.

Journey to Kissingen.—Taking Lodgings.—The Public Gardens.

KISSINGEN, JUNE 21ST.

The country immediately round Francfort is flat and uninteresting; but

as soon as we entered Bavaria, we came upon very agreeable scenery. The

valley of the Main, which we thridded during our first day’s journey, is

quite beautiful. Magnificent forests of oak and beech cover the hills;

and the little rural plain at their foot, bordering the river, is rich

in pasture and ripe grain. There is a steamboat from Francfort to

Wurzburg, of which I am half sorry we did not avail ourselves; for I

like following the course of a river as it meanders through a country.

But Wurzburg is at some distance from Kissingen, and the intervening

country by no means so pretty as that we have just traversed. For

several miles our route ran close to the river; then, quitting the low

valley, we wound along the ridges of the hills, entering the forests,

which gathered round us with their pleasant shade. We slept at Lohr.

This town is delightfully situated on the Main; the inn, good; the only

drawback was, that they had no bread—an extraordinary circumstance, it

appeared to me, in Germany, as I have always enjoyed and vaunted its

peculiar blessing of excellent bread, even when all else was repulsive.

There was some very black bread I could not touch, and some sort of

cakes, stale, and even mouldy. We showed them complainingly to our

dirty-handed waiter, who caught them up. “These not good,” he cried,

turning them about and tossing them from one hand to the other—from bad

to worse—“they were new yesterday—they are excellent.” This manipulation

succeeded in rendering them absolutely uneatable. We did not like even

to look at them.

Our next day’s journey was hilly, as we crossed a height and passed from

the valley of the Main to the valley of the Saale. The hills are lower,

but the country bears the same characteristics—a clear stream, bordered

by a grassy plain—wooded hills, forming amphitheatres, closing around.

The villages are miserable enough.

With eager eyes we caught a view of Kissingen, as we descended the hill

from Hammelburg. It looked a small village interspersed with a few large

houses on the banks of the Saale. The river meanders through green

meadows from east to west, and wooded hills close in the vale. It was a

scene of great tranquillity, without any striking beauties; verdant,

peaceful, and secluded.

We alighted at the hotel of the Kurhaus, a spacious and good inn. They

were expecting the Queen of Wurtemburg and her suite in a few days, but

were tolerably empty; and we easily procured rooms. Our next care was to

look for a lodging. My companions went on this task, I was so very

tired. There is a _Commissaire des Voyageurs_ appointed by Government,

to whom strangers can apply, who keeps lists of lodgings and mediates

with regard to the price. He pretended to speak French and English; but,

as Dangle says in “The Critic,” “Egad, I think the interpreter is the

hardest to be understood of the two!” He said he should spend the winter

in England, and really learn English for the next season. He seemed

straight-forward in his dealings, and went with my friends to various

houses. They selected one across the bridge, out of the town. I went to

look at it. The terms were tolerably moderate. The rooms had a southern

aspect; they were large; and the floors, of white new deal, only wanted

a little scouring: in short, though of course somewhat bare of

furniture, the lodging, in this summer season, looked cheerful, and even

pleasant. We agreed for it and instantly took possession.

I despair of describing the scene of our entrance. Madame Fries, the

landlady, was an invalid, and did not appear. Herr Fries, a tall, fair

German, is an _employé_ in the police, and was absent. No one spoke a

word of anything but German in the house. We were at our wits’ end.

Dictionary in hand, we tried to impart our wants; there was an ugly

good-humoured looking maid, and a rather pretty girl to wait on us, in

addition to an uncouth sort of lad. These people gathered round us very

earnest to please; but how were we to be pleased? We wanted the floors

washed, for they looked unhealthy. We wanted our beds arranged in our

own way (German beds are so strangely uncomfortable from the queer odds

and ends of mattresses with which they are garnished); and above all, we

wanted something besides a pie-dish and water-bottle for our washing

apparatus. The way to secure this was to insist on a _fuss-bad_ in each

room; so small tubs were at last provided. Then we wished for tea: by

dint of gesture and dictionary we tried to make ourselves understood.

The women stood by laughing; the lad looked all eagerness to catch our

meaning. At length he gave an exulting hop, snapt his fingers and rushed

out, and brought back a tea-pot. Happy apparition! but it was more

difficult to procure boiling water.

After about two hours order was established, and hopes of cleanliness

for the morrow brightened round us. We sat down to tea, when lo! Herr

Fries entered with another German, whom he introduced as a German

Master. We did not like his appearance, and his attempts at English

less, so we declined engaging him. This, however, was not the real

object of Herr Fries’s visit. It was to inform us, by means of his

interpreter, for he himself spoke German only, that we had taken his

rooms for four months. This startled us; as our bargain was really for

four weeks. Our compact, however, had been made by the Commissaire, and

we referred to him. Reluctantly, and still arguing the point, Herr Fries

at last withdrew.

I shall see a physician to-morrow and begin the waters; the place is

rather empty as yet. We walked in the public gardens, in which the

medicinal springs flow. Crossing the bridge we entered the gardens at

one extremity; they are oblong, occupying about a couple of acres, of

course gravelled, or rather shingled, and planted with avenues of trees.

To the left they are bordered by the high-road, on the other side of

which are all the large hotels. On the right is the _Conversation Haus_,

consisting of a very large and well-built assembly-room with various

appendages. At the other end are the springs; they are in a sort of

paved court, about twenty feet below the soil; a low iron railing runs

round the court; and they are covered with a light open-worked wire

canopy. Two springs are here—the Pandur and Ragozzi: there is another,

the Max Brunnen, resembling Seidlitz water, but without iron, which is

in another part of the garden. A band plays under the trees from six

till eight in the morning, and from six till eight in the evening; at

which hour the visitors walk and drink the waters.

LETTER III.

Kissingen.—The _Cur_.—The Table d’Hôte.—The Walks.—German

Master.—Bathing.

KISSINGEN, JULY 4.

I am in the midst of my _cur_, and we are all in the midst of a general

cure of a regiment of sick people. It is odd enough to seek amusement by

being surrounded by the rheumatic, the gouty, the afflicted of all

sorts. I do not think I shall be tempted to a German bath again, unless

I am seriously ill.

Kissingen, until lately, was not much visited, even by the Germans, and

was quite unknown to the English. The Bubbles of the Brunnens brought

the baths of Nassau into fashion with us. Doctor Granville’s book

extended our acquaintance with the spas of Germany; and, in particular,

gave reputation to those situated in Bavaria. Kissingen has thus rapidly

acquired notoriety; and soon the English, who are flocking hither, will

effect a change in the homely habits we have found. A throng of our

country people soon effects a revolution, increasing both comforts and

prices in a very high degree.

All the Germans get up at four, and parade the gardens to drink the

waters till nearly eight; I contrive to get there soon after five. These

waters are not mere salts, like Carlsbad, nor mere iron, but a very

diluted mixture of both. I believe them to be very conducive to the

restoration of health; but they must only be taken under a physician’s

superintendence, as it is dangerous to play with them. The morning walk

I find pleasant: I leave the gardens after each glass, and stroll beyond

into the meadows bordering the Saale, away from the garish spectacle of

the smart toilettes, and the saddening sight of the sick. I return to

breakfast at eight, if that may be called breakfast, which is not one.

So many things are supposed to disagree with the waters, that not only

everything substantial, but also butter, fruit, tea, coffee, and milk

are prohibited. We dine at one at the _table d’hôte_ of the Kurhaus; the

ceremony is, to the last degree, unsatisfactory and disgusting. The King

of Bavaria is so afraid that his medicinal waters may fall into

disrepute if the drinkers should eat what disagrees with them, that we

only eat what he, in conjunction with a triumvirate of doctors, is

pleased to allow us. Every now and then a new article is struck out from

our bill of fare, notice being sent from this council, which is stuck up

for our benefit at the door of the _salle-à-manger_, to the effect that,

whoever in Kissingen should serve at any table pork, veal, salad, fruit,

&c. &c. &c., should be fined so many florins. Our pleasures of the

palate are thus circumscribed, not to say annihilated; for the food they

give us is so uninviting, that we only take enough barely to sustain

life: for, strangely enough, though butter is prohibited, their dishes

overflow with grease. Oh! the disgust of sitting down with two hundred

people in one hall, served slowly with uneatable food: each day we

resolve to try to get a dinner at home; but there is a little knot of

English about us, and we agree to endure together; but it is sad.

Our evening walks are pleasant. We desert the public gardens, as you may

believe: sometimes we walk in the meadows bordering the Saale to the

Soolen Sprudel, where the salt works are established, and where there is

a spring of water strongly impregnated with gas, which boils up

furiously at intervals. People have gas baths here—they ought to be

carefully conducted; for though I believe efficacious cures, they

sometimes kill. A Russian nobleman since our arrival, died under the

operation of bathing in one.

Sometimes we cross the valley, and ascend the hills to the ruined castle

of Bodenlauben, which commands a view of this rural vale; but our

favourite walk is in the wood that clothes the hill on our side of the

valley. They have the practice in Germany, in the neighbourhood of

Baths, of laying out innumerable paths all through the woods, and across

the hills, for the convenience of the visitors—long walks entering into

the course of treatment. The woods, oak and elm, varied by magnificent

silver birch, with their graceful tresses, are very fine. We find here a

few fire-flies: like unfortunate Italian exiles, they gleam with subdued

brightness in an ungenial clime, and one wonders how they can endure so

northern a temperature.

We have tried to get a German master. Our first attempt was

infelicitous, being an “unwashed” metaphysician, who fairly beat our

faculties of enduring disagreeable odours. We have now another, who

assures us that he is first-rate; and that it is much better to learn

German of the rough Bœotian (Bavarian) sort, than the effeminate

softness of Saxony and Hanover. I am afraid I shall not make much

progress. We _malades_ are forbidden to exert our intellects; and, to

make this prohibition more stringent, the gas one imbibes with the water

produces a weakness in the eyes, which has rendered this letter the work

of many days.

The progress of the _cur_, or treatment, indeed, is not pleasant; I find

the waters have a very agitating effect on the nerves. I drink the

Ragozzi, which contains more iron than the Pandur. It is not

disagreeable; that is, the first glass seemed so; but after that one

forgot that it had any taste, and the effervescence of the gas makes it

rather agreeable. Those to whom iron is hurtful put the glass in warm

water, when the gas quickly flies off. We bathe in the water of the

Pandur, brought boiling in casks to the house; the baths are mere wooden

coffins, and on first entering them their shape rather shocks the

feelings. The water made hot has the colour of iron rust, and is opaque.

The bathing rooms in our house are badly managed and very dirty; but it

is soothing to sit for an hour in hot water, which does not, like a

common warm bath, weaken afterwards.

I trust to receive benefit in the end; but it is rather an infliction

upon my companions to be dieted by the King of Bavaria, and to live, as

they say, surrounded by _lepers_. We are still undecided as to our

ulterior movements.

LETTER IV.

Medical Treatment.—Amusements.—German Master.—Broklet.—Preparations for

Departure.

KISSINGEN, 10TH JULY.

As I was sitting at breakfast this morning I had a visit from my

physician. He looked with consternation on the table. “Butter!” he

exclaimed; “strawberries! tea! milk!” There was a crescendo of horror in

his voice. One by one, these slender luxuries were withdrawn, and I was

left with a _little_ bread, and water (the staple of the place) _ad

libitum_.

Though the _cur_ of these waters is not an agreeable process, I have

great faith in the advantages that accrue. There is a day or two called

the crisis, which I have just passed—about the fifteenth or sixteenth

after beginning the waters—which, indeed, resembles the crisis of a

serious illness. The body becomes inert and languid, with a sense of

illness pervading the frame; the mind is haunted by apprehension of

evil, and is disturbed by a nervous restlessness and irritability of the

most distressing kind. After a day or two these symptoms disappear. I

experienced it most painfully, and am now quite well, but rather eager

to get away: I am heartily tired of the waters, the promenade, the

dinners, the sick; and the surrounding scenery is by no means

interesting enough to compensate for our disagreeable style of life.

Generally, the assembling at a German bath is a signal for gaiety; but

the physicians here discountenance every sort of excitement, and their

_malades_ are very obedient. The Queen of Wurtemburg is here _incog._ as

Frau Grafinn von Teck, with two Grafinnin her daughters—fine girls, with

all the beauty of youth and health. The artificers of Kissingen

celebrated her arrival by walking in procession, with torches, into the

court-yard of her hotel, where the band played, and the torches flared

and smoked, till everybody was blinded and begrimed. The Queen walks in

the morning early to drink the waters, and the centre allée of the

gardens is left free for her. Such persons as have been presented, she

has asked to dinner, but gives no further sign of life. Once a week

there takes place what they call a _reunion_, when everybody meets in

the _Conversationhaus_ built by the King of Bavaria for the benefit of

the baths. It is as good a ball-room as that of Almack, or in the palace

of the King of Holland at the Hague; but the miserable use they made of

it shocked us. At half-past eight the room is crowded; but the company

do not dance, although there is a good band playing quadrilles, waltzes,

and galoppes, the whole evening; sometimes two couples may be seen

turning in the midst of the crowd; sometimes these may augment to

six—but it is rare—and this in a room where several hundred people are

assembled. The cause is the despotic decree of the triumvirate of

doctors above-mentioned, who maintain dancing to be absolutely

incompatible with drinking the waters.

They tried to get up the appearance of a _fête_ on the birthday of the

Queen of Bavaria. They dressed the _salle a manger_ at the Kurhaus with

boughs of trees; the Governor dined at our table, and gave a toast, “the

Queen;” while the band (we always have music at dinner) played our

National Air, which the Bavarians claim for their own. The ceremony of

dining was thus longer and more tiresome than usual. There was an

illumination in the evening; and the canopy to the mineral springs

looked pretty, picked out in lamps.

JULY 13TH.

The King of Bavaria came over this morning. He is popular as a good king

and a clever man, fond of the arts; but is esteemed to have “a bee in

his bonnet,” which “bee” appears to have degenerated into a wasp with

his son Otho. The Crown Prince of Bavaria is much respected, and has the

reputation of being gifted with his father’s talents, with judgment

superadded. The appearance of the King is droll enough; tall, with long

legs and arms, he walks furiously fast, talks earnestly and loud, and

gesticulates violently; he dresses shabbily, and his thin, adust face is

inconceivably wrinkled.

The baths which he particularly patronises are those of Brukenau, about

twenty miles distant, where he has a palace: these are steel waters, and

most people go to strengthen themselves there, after being diluted by

the Kissingen springs. The King has perceived the flow of money brought

into other States by the resort of strangers to the baths, and is very

anxious that his should be celebrated. For this reason, he decorated Dr.

Granville’s button-hole with a bit of ribbon, much to the disgust of the

native physicians, who are provoked to remark, “Our King is sometimes

one fool.” Dr. Granville is practising here, also to the discontent of

the native medical people, who see the rich current of English guineas

turn away from themselves. However, as he is the cause of many coming

here, he has certainly a right to profit by their visits. The King is

very fond of receiving the English; he understands our language, and

asks, in royal style, a thousand rapid questions; being somewhat deaf,

he does not always hear the reply, and droll equivoques have taken

place.

Now that the Queen of Wurtemburg, who changes her dress three times a

day, and never wears the same gown twice, promenades the gardens, the

ladies pay more attention to their _toilettes_; but there is a great

absence of beauty among us. There are no good-looking Germans,—and the

handsomest women are one or two Russians. The English do not shine as

much as usual. As yet, few persons of rank are arrived; the season for

touring with us is not yet commenced, and the good people of Kissingen

will hail a second harvest when we hurry across the channel at the end

of the London season. Most of the men here are really ill, and come to

take care of their health. Accordingly, they obey the physicians, who

forbid gambling. It is only on Sunday, when it is the fashion for all

our neighbours, from many miles round, to come over to dine at

Kissingen, and that gaming-tables are opened in some rooms of the

Kurhaus, but they are thinly attended. No gaiety goes on in the

Conversation House, with the exception of the _réunions_; but it is

always open—a retreat and a lounge from the promenade in the gardens.

There is a piano in it; and it is a specimen of German manners, that

ladies go in all simplicity to practise, and even exercise their voices

in a public room, without any of the false shame, or vanity, or modesty

that an Englishwoman would experience, and also without exciting any

observation.

I am ashamed to say I make no progress in German; my eyes and health

have both held me back, and our master does not lead me on. Yet, though

it is the fashion of his pupils to rebel, he has a practice which I am

sure is a good one for any person desirous to speak the language

quickly. With perseverance, and a haughty sense of our duty towards him,

he gathers us together (about six or eight) in the rooms of some one of

us, to read aloud a play of Schiller—we each having a copy of the play

with a literal translation on the other side. It is strange how quickly

the eye can turn from the original to the translation, and the ear get

habituated to remember the words and phrases; it is a royal road to a

smattering of the language to which I shall certainly have recourse

again, so to try to acquire a better knowledge of this crabbed, and to

my memory, antipathetic German.

JULY 17TH.

This evening we drove over to Brocklet, about four miles off, described

by Murray as “another watering-place, possessing four strong chalybeate

springs, in which the salts and soda are largely mixed with iron. The

action of the water is powerfully tonic and exciting.” They taste like

ink, but I liked them much, and drank several glasses, with a great

sense of deriving benefit from them. I really believe I ought to take a

course of steel waters after those of Kissingen; but we are so tired of

living at a watering-place that I shall not.

Brocklet is situated in a little wooded dell, quite shut in; it is as

secluded, shadowy and still, as the abode of Morpheus, described by

Ovid. A few convalescent sick wandered silently under the trees, and a

band tried to play, but only produced a lulling murmur, in accordance

with a trickling rill and the gentle rustling of the leaves of the

trees. In this dim limbo you can live as well and cheaper than at

Kissingen. The expense here is not large, but for a family it is not

small; our household (three of us and my maid) cost us about eight or

nine pounds a week—house-rent and everything included. We could easily

spend more, but it is impossible, from the system of things, to spend

less. The most agreeable luxury, indeed the only one that there is any

opportunity of enjoying, are horses to visit the surrounding country. I

wish we had our little Welsh ponies to scamper over the hills away from

the _malades_.

The incidents of our day are few. Now and then Herr Fries, sometimes

accompanied by his _soi-disant_ English master, sometimes in all the

desolating impotence of his unintelligible German, presses on our

attention our pretended compact for four months; we have but one

answer—the _Commissaire_ through whose mediation we made the bargain. I

do not think Herr Fries has even applied to him, and when we mention the

subject he treats it with lofty contempt. Meanwhile our month is nearly

concluded, and we shall soon leave Kissingen. I assure myself that I

have benefited by the waters, though I gain no belief from my companions

who do not drink them, and find the place and its dinners very

intolerable. In the midst of our balancing whither to go, a few

circumstances have turned the scale. Letters have arrived from a college

friend of P. and K., begging us to come to Dresden. There is a railroad

we find from Leipsig to Berlin, and from Leipsig to Dresden. My mind has

for years been set upon seeing the galleries of pictures in these towns.

We have had no warm weather; at the end of July the summer may be

considered as well-nigh over. We shall quit this place in a day or two,

and penetrate still deeper into Germany, visit cities renowned in

history, and pass over ground—the fields of ten thousand battles.

LETTER V.

Leave Kissingen.—Baths of Brukenau.—Fulda.—Eisenach.—Castle of

Wartburg.—Gotha.—Erfurt.—Weimar.—The Elster.—Leipsig.

LEIPSIG.

At length we have left Kissingen; and though, while there, we made the

best of it, we find, on looking back, that it was very intolerable, and

that it is a great blessing to escape from the saddening spectacle of a

crowd of invalids assembled _en masse_. Enormously fat men trying to

thin down—delicate women hoping to grow into better case—no children.

This is another decree of the physicians: children are prohibited,

because the mind must enjoy perfect repose, and children are apt to

create disturbance in the hearts of tender parents. It is surprising

that, to forward the cure, all letters are not opened first by the

doctors, and not delivered if they contain any disagreeable news. As

yet, they only exhort the friends of the sick to spare them every

painful emotion in their correspondence; but Kissingen will not be

perfect, until the post is put under medical _surveillance_. Do not

misunderstand me. I believe the waters of Kissingen to be highly

medicinal, and the hours and walks and everything, but the dinners,

exceedingly conducive to the restoration of health; but during this

season it has not offered any attraction to those who come to a

watering-place in search of amusement.

By the help of our German master, Mr. Wertheim, of Munich, who showed

himself most zealous and kind, we engaged a _voiture_ to take us to

Leipsig in six days. The only error we have found in Murray is, that the

price he mentions for the hire of carriages and horses is less than we

find it. He may retort, and say we are cheated: but we apply to natives,

and, if it be possible, I am sure it would be difficult, to make a

better bargain than we have done.

JULY 19.

The town of Brukenau lay in our route; the Baths, two miles beyond, were

out of it: however, we bargained to visit them. The road lay along the

level close under the hills, and we wound for twenty miles through the

wooded ravine. The characteristic of Franconia, on the edges of which we

still were, appears to be gentle valleys, thridded by small clear

streams; the immediate banks either meadow or arable, and closed in by

hills, covered with forests of beech, interspersed by the weeping birch.

Brukenau itself is beyond this circle, and entered into the territories

of the Bishops of Fulda: but in the new distribution of kingdoms,

Brukenau fell to the share of Bavaria, and the town of Fulda to the Duke

of Hesse Cassel. At Brukenau, leaving the high-road, we entered the

valley of the Sinn, and penetrated into the very sheltered bosom of the

hills towards the Baths. There is a sense of extreme tranquillity in

these secluded spots in Bavaria, where you seem cast on an unknown,

unvisited region, and yet, on reaching the watering-place itself, find

all the comforts of life “rise like an exhalation” around.

The hills round Brukenau are much higher and more romantic than at

Kissingen. They are covered with fine beech forests, and traversed in

every part by paths, interspersed with seats, constructed for the

convenience of the visitors; and so extensive, that you may wander for

ten or twenty miles in their depths. The public gardens, instead of

being a melancholy strip of ground, planted with dry and dusty-looking

trees, are extensive, and resemble an English pleasure-ground; a

brawling stream, the Sinn, adorns them; everything invites the wanderer

to stroll on, and to enjoy in fine weather Nature’s dearest gifts, shady

woods, open lawns, and views of beautiful country; loitering beside a

murmuring stream, or toiling on awhile, and then resting as you gaze on

a wider prospect. The waters here are chalybeate and tonic; they taste

of ink, but sparkle in the glass, and I found them pleasant. We arrived

at the dinner hour, and sat down in the large and well-built Kursaal,

where the tables were spread, to a dinner somewhat better than that

allowed us at Kissingen, and we enjoyed the novelty of salad, fruits,

and ice. We found several familiar faces from Kissingen come here to

strengthen themselves with steel waters. Altogether the place looked at

once more sociable and more retired; and, above all, the country around

was, without being striking from crag and precipice, far more

picturesque than at Kissingen. The whole establishment is in the hands

of government, and the houses where the visitors lodge are placed in the

midst of the garden. Things are managed both more cheaply and more

agreeably than at Kissingen. The visitors, however, are never so

numerous, and the style of the place is more quiet. The king has a

palace, where he spends the season, and is very courteous to the

English. We wished to sleep at the Baths, but unfortunately no beds were

to be had, though great exertion was made by several good-natured

visitors to procure them for us. Oddly enough, persons we had been

accustomed to meet, without speaking, day after day at Kissingen, here

had the air of familiar acquaintance. We were sorry to go away, and

loitered several hours in the gardens, and visited the old kursaal, a

rather dilapidated room. The walls were hung with portraits of the

ancient Prince-Bishops of Fulda—the discoverers, and erst the

possessors, of these medicinal springs. I should have been glad to stay

at least a week in this agreeable retirement, and drink the waters; but

we could not now alter our arrangements.

We were obliged to return to the town of Brukenau to sleep; as the

golden hues of evening increased at once the beauty and the stillness of

the happy valley, with regret we tore ourselves away. Murray bids us go

to the Hotel of the Post at Brukenau, and we learned afterwards that

this is really a good and comfortable inn. I fancy the master has had

some quarrel with the authorities at the Baths, for we were bidden go to

another inn; in an evil hour we obeyed. It was very dirty and

comfortless.

JULY 20TH.

Leaving Brukenau the following morning early, we by degrees quitted the

wooded hills and grassy valleys of Franconia, and entered the domains of

the Prince of Hesse Cassel.

It was in these territories that a scene was enacted during the last

century, so overlooked by history, that I believe by-and-bye it will

only be remembered (how is it even now?) by the commentators on

Schiller. When we read of the _Hessians_ in the American war, we have a

vague idea that our government called in the aid of foreign mercenaries

to subdue the revolted colonies; an act which roused Lord Chatham to

exclaim in the House of Peers, “If I were an American, as I am an

Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my country I never would

lay down my arms, never—never—never!” We censure the policy of

government, we lament the obstinacy of George III., who, exhausting the

English levies, had recourse to “the mercenary sons of rapine and

plunder;” and “devoted the Americans and their possessions to the

rapacity of hireling cruelty.” But our imagination does not transport

itself to the homes of the unfortunate Germans; nor is our abhorrence of

the tyranny that sent them to die in another hemisphere awakened. Lord

Chatham does indeed in the same speech, from which the above quotations

are made, cast a half-pitying glance on the victims of their native

sovereign, when he talks of “traffic and barter with every little

pitiful German prince that sells and sends his subjects to the shambles

of a foreign sovereign.” Schiller, in his tragedy of “Cabal and Love,”

describes the misery brought on his own countrymen more graphically. “A

petty German prince,” namely, the Duke of Hesse Cassel, or perhaps the

Margrave of Anspach, who also dealt in this unholy traffic, sends a

present of jewels to his mistress—she is astonished at their

magnificence, and asks the bringer of them, how the Duke could pay for

such immeasurably costly jewels? The servant replies—“They cost him

nothing. Seven thousand children of the soil started yesterday for

America; they pay for all.” “But not compelled?” the lady demands; the

poor man, who has two sons among the recruits, replies—“O God, no!

perfect volunteers. True, some forward lads stepped out of the ranks and

asked the colonel, how dear the prince sold his yoke of men? But our

gracious lord caused all the regiments to be marched to the parade

ground, to shoot down the jackanapes. We heard the report of the

firelocks, saw their brains scattered on the ground, and the whole army

shouted ‘Hurrah for America!’ Then the loud drums told us it was time.

On one side shrieking orphans followed their living father; on the other

a distracted mother ran to cast her sucking child on the bayonets; here

a pair of betrothed lovers were parted by sabre blows; and there grey

beards stood struck by despair, and at last flung their crutches after

the young fellows who were off to the New World. Oh! and with all that

the deafening roll of the drum mingled, for fear the Almighty should

hear us praying!” We were told that the facts were worse even than this

picture; since when first the order was given out for the enlisting of

the soldiers, hundreds deserted their homes and betook themselves to the

neighbouring mountains of Franconia, and were hunted down like wild

animals, and starved into surrender.

History fails fearfully in its duty when it makes over to the poet the

record and memory of such an event. One, it is to be hoped, that can

never be renewed. And yet what act of cruelty and tyranny may not be

reacted on the stage of the world, which we boast of as civilised, if

one man has uncontrolled power over the lives of many, the unwritten

story of Russia may hereafter tell.

The country, as we went on, became uninteresting—a sandy soil, and few

trees. We dined at Fulda, an agreeable, quiet-looking, old German town,

once the capital of the prince-bishops of that diocese. We visited the

Cathedral, a fine old building, containing some holy relics, which are

preserved in little painted wooden boxes kept behind the altar. They had

not the air of sanctity about them, and the man who shewed the chancel

handled them with great indifference. Afterwards, we went to the Church

of St. Michael, where we were taken to some subterranean vaults, in

which Aniaschiadus, a saint and confessor, lived, I think, they said,

for seven years, hid from the persecution of the Arians. Do not wonder

that I speak in doubt, for our guide was German, and we could only guess

at his meaning. Enough to learn that one persecuted for his religious

faith did pass a number of years in this dark vault, in fear, want, and

suffering; and came out, probably, to persecute in his turn—such is the

usual result of this sort of controversy. Ministers of religion have

been in all ages too easily led to destroy the bodies of those whose

souls they believe to be lost. There is a palace here, standing on the

highest part of the town; and a show of military. The city has, indeed,

an individual appearance, that stamps it on the memory, without being

sufficiently striking for description.

This evening we slept at Buttlar, at a quiet, comfortable, country inn.

Buttlar is a small village; this the only good house; but it had all the

charm of an English way-side inn in a retired spot, where they are

accustomed to receive visitors in search of the picturesque. The charges

in this part of the journey were very moderate. We paid highest, of

course, at the bad inn, at Brukenau; and the charges at _all_ appear

quite arbitrary. Fancy prices put on by the landlord, according to the

appearance of his guests. As we pass also, without knowing it, from one

State to another, the coins vary. The money is easy enough when not

confounded: a Bavarian florin is reckoned as two francs; a thaler, as

three shillings. Sometimes we pay in one money; sometimes in another. On

the whole, the Prussian thaler, divided into three coins of ten groschen

each, equivalent to a shilling, is the most intelligible; but the

Bavarian florin denotes greater cheapness in price.

JULY 21ST.

We now entered the depths of the Thuringerwald; and, stopping at

Eisenach for dinner, hired a carriage—the distance was not much more

than a mile, but the day was wet—to take us to the Castle of Wartburg.

Luther, on his return from the Diet of Worms, was waylaid by his friend,

the Elector of Saxony, and carried thither as to a place of safety. He

remained ten months, passing for a young nobleman; and busily employed

in translating the Bible, and composing other works. The Castle of

Wartburg is situated on a steep wooded eminence, ascended by a winding

road, thickly shaded by trees. The chamber that Luther inhabited has one

large window, overlooking a wide extent of hill and dale, stretching far

away over the Thuringian Forest—a noble prospect; and the very site,

high-raised and commanding, was well suited to the lofty and unbending

soul of the recluse. This chamber is preserved in the same state as when

it harboured its illustrious guest; and, except his bed, his furniture

remains: his table, his stool, his chair, and ink-stand, are there; and

if not the stain on the wall, marking his exploit of throwing his

ink-stand at the Arch Tempter’s head, there is at least the place where

the ink _was_—some tourist has carried off the memorable plaster. We

saw, also, several suits of armour belonging to various heroes of olden

time here preserved. Hearing the names of prince, heroine, or even of

illustrious robber (names honoured in history), who once endued these

iron vestments—looking round on the armoury, or out of the window on the

Thuringerwald—I felt happy in the sense of satisfied curiosity; or

rather, of another sentiment to which I cannot give a precise name, but

which swells the heart and makes the bosom glow, as one views, and

touches, and feels surrounded by the remains of illustrious antiquity.

The honoured name of Luther had more than any other right and power to

awaken this: those of warrior or king only influence the imagination, as

associated with poetry and romance; his is rendered sacred by his

struggle, the most fearful human life presents, with antique mis-beliefs

and errors upheld by authority.

We saw nothing of Gotha, where we slept; though, for Prince Albert’s

sake, I would willingly have become better acquainted with his native

place. There is something pleasing in the mere outward aspect of these

Protestant German towns: they look clean, orderly, and well-built. Hail

to the good fight, the heart says everywhere; hail to the soil whence

intellectual liberty gained, with toil and suffering, the victory—not

complete yet—but which, thanks to the men of those time, can never

suffer entire defeat! In time, it will spread to those countries which

are still subject to Papacy.

JULY 22D.

We breakfasted this morning at Erfurt, and made duteous pilgrimage to

the Augustine convent which Luther inhabited as a monk. In the church,

he said his first mass; and it remains in the same state, with a rude

old pulpit, in which Luther preached, and carved wooden galleries. His

cell is preserved as when he lived in it. It is, like conventual cells

all over the world, a small, square, high chamber. Here is the Bible

that he first found in the library of the Convent; studying which his

powerful mind began to perceive the errors of the Church to which he

belonged. The convent is now used as an Orphan-house. There is a gallery

in it, with a strange series of pictures. Death is represented as coming

upon men and women at all moments, during every occupation—the Beauty at

her toilette—the Miser counting his money—the Hero in the hour of

victory—the King on his throne—the Mother fostering her first-born—the

Bride, proud in her husband. It is a strange idea: the pictures are

badly executed enough, yet some are striking.

The country lost, as we proceeded, all its beauty—vast uninclosed tracts

of arable land spread out round. From a height, we looked down on

Weimar. The trees of its park were the only verdure visible; for the

harvest being over, the land was all stubble: no hedge, no meadow, no

shady covert. I pitied the poets who had been destined to live there;

for however agreeable royal parks and gardens may be, they are a poor

compensation for the free and noble beauty of nature.

Dining at Weimar, we spent two or three hours in running about to visit

the lions. It is a pleasant looking town. I do not know exactly how to

present to your imagination the appearance of these German towns. The

streets are wide; and thus, though the houses are high, they look airy,

and, though badly paved, clean: the houses are white, and have not the

air of antiquity. As I have said once or twice before, an appearance of

order and tranquillity is their characteristic. We visited the abodes of

Wieland, Schiller, and Göthe, who are the great people here: that is, we

saw the outside of the houses in which they had dwelt; for, being

inhabited by a fresh generation, the insides are not show places. The

palace is a handsome building; and three apartments are being decorated

in honour of those chosen poets. The larger one for Göthe; a smaller for

Schiller; a sort of octagon closet for Wieland. The walls are adorned

with frescoes of subjects taken from their works. I am not sure that I

should give this superiority to Göthe: Schiller has always appeared to

me the greater man: he is more complete. The startling quality of Göthe

is his insight into the secret depths of the human mind; his power of

dissecting motives—of holding up the mirror to our most inmost

sensations; and also in dramatic scenes of touching pathos, and passages

of overflowing eloquence: but he wants completeness, and never achieves

a whole. “Faust” is a fragment—“Wilhelm Meister” is a fragment. It is

true, this has a closer resemblance to life which seldom affords an

artistic beginning, middle, and end to its strange enchainment of

events. Still, the conception of a perfect whole has ever held the

highest place in our standard of a poet’s power of imagination. But I

will spare you further criticism from an ignorant person.

We saw the coffins of the poets in the dark tomb, placed not side by

side, princely etiquette forbad, but in the same narrow chamber with

those of the princes who honoured them. These coffins suggest a

wonderful contempt for the material of life; Camoëns exclaimed, when

dying in an hospital, “Lo! the vast scene of my fortunes is contracted

to this narrow bed!” This tomb told us that princely protection and the

aspirations of genius were shut up in those dust-containing coffers; yet

not so, while the works of the one endure, and the memory of the acts of

the others survive in the minds of posterity. This friendship after

death, this desire to share even in the grave the poet’s renown, after

having sheltered and honoured him during life, makes one love these good

German sovereigns. Mr. Landor says the Germans possess nine-tenths of

the thought that exists in the world. There is in even larger proportion

honour for thought. The gardens of the palace are agreeably laid out;

and except that turf is wanting, resemble an English park, with fine old

trees and a river running through. This spot was a favourite resort, and

there is a pretty shady summer-house overlooking the river, where the

sovereigns held _réunions_, and entertained their poet friends; many a

June evening was there spent in refined intercourse. There is also a

pavilion in the garden which Göthe inhabited in the summer months.

The park of Weimar was an oasis in the desert. We found for many miles

after leaving it, the same dreary landscape; flat and unmarked as the

sea; not as barren, for the country is all corn-fields but as no hedge

intersects them, nor any bush shows its tufted top, nor any trees appear

except the ill-looking poplars mixed with cherry-trees that line the

road, nothing can be more unvaried or uninteresting than these vast

plains; uninteresting indeed, in outward aspect, yet claiming our

attention and exciting our curiosity as the scene of a thousand battles,

above all, of that last struggle, when yielding the ground inch by inch,

mile by mile, Napoleon was driven from Dresden to the Rhine.

Some slight interruption occurs in the uniform aspect of these bare

plains, when they are intersected by the course of the Saale, a common

name for a river in Germany, which winds through a pleasing village. On

the heights that surround, stand old castles renowned in story. We soon

left this pleasant change behind, and came again on the naked country,

sweeping over miles and miles; our guide-books speak of this as the

scenes of battles and victories of Gustavus Adolphus, and Frederic the

Great. The first name claims our admiration, and we looked with respect

on the stone that marks the spot where he fell. Frederic was a very

clever man, and except for the evils which, as a conqueror, he brought

on his subjects, he did them good as far as his limited views permitted

him. But there is no sovereign whose acts fill so many pages in history,

for whom one cares so little as Frederic. Cold-hearted, if not false,

the dogged determination and invincible purpose that form his best

characteristic, yet centred so narrowly in self, that he excites no jot

of interest. It was otherwise in his own day. He was a king, a man of

talent, a warrior who encountered difficulties that had overwhelmed a

weaker mind, and surmounted them. He had the charm of manners, which,

though cruelly capricious to his dependents, were, when he chose,

irresistibly fascinating; such qualities awoke, while he lived, the

admiration of the world; but with the Prince de Ligne died the last of

his enthusiastic admirers.

Another name, greater and newer than his, has thrust him from his place,

and occupies our attention—in one respect his entire opposite; for

Napoleon was great in success, Frederic in defeat. Perhaps the absence

of heaven-born legitimacy took from the latest hero of the world who has

joined the dead, the unflinching, stubborn will of Frederic in

adversity; besides, it would seem that Napoleon disdained to fight,

except when he could gain a world by victory. Here he lost one; and a

struggle that lasted many days in the environs of Leipsig, drove him

from Germany. When reduced to what he seemed to look upon as the paltry

kingdom of France, he played double or quits with that and lost all.

We looked out for the Elster, where the bridge was blown up which cost

Poniatowski his life, and lost to Napoleon twenty-five thousand French

soldiers taken prisoners. I am told that I now look upon the very spot;

that at the end of the garden of the Hôtel de Saxe this tragic scene was

enacted: it seems as if a good hunter might leap the narrow stream which

decided the fate of an empire.

Here ends a very fatiguing journey. The carriage we hired was to

appearance roomy and comfortable; but being badly hung, it was

inconceivably uneasy; and partly, I believe, the effect of the Kissingen

waters still hanging about me, (I _ought_ to have spent a week at least

at Brukenau,) I never suffered more fatigue and even distress on a

journey. Right glad I am to be here. To-morrow we commit ourselves to a

railroad—blessings on the man who invented them. Every traveller must

especially bless him in these naked, monotonous plains.

The Hôtel de Saxe is very good, and not much dearer than any other. They

are expecting the King of Prussia to-morrow, and the staircases are

carpeted and decorated with evergreens. The Oberkellner, or upper

waiter—a very important personage in these German hotels—is an

intelligent little fellow, and speaks English perfectly.

Congratulate me that so far I am advanced in the heart of this mighty

country. Though I skim its surface without having any communication with

its inhabitants, still the eye is gratified, the imagination excited,

and curiosity satisfied.

LETTER VI.

Railroad to

Berlin.—Unter-den-Linden.—Gallery.—Palace.—Museum.—Opera.—Iron-Foundry.

BERLIN, 27TH JULY.

The distance from Leipsig to Berlin is 105 miles; the greater part an

arid sandy plain. Earlier in the season it had not been so bad, for the

land is arable; but now the stubble remaining after harvest was the only

sign left of cultivation. The sense the eye received of nakedness was in

no way relieved—no hedge, no tree, no meadow, no bush. One break there

was when we crossed the Elbe, and a line of verdure and wood follows the

course of the river. I read “The Heart of Mid-Lothian” during the

journey, which occupied six or seven hours, and the time passed rapidly.

There are three classes of carriages, and the price is not dear:—1st

class, five and a half thalers (a thaler is three shillings); 2d class,

three and a half thalers; 3d class, two and a half. A few miles beyond

Leipsig we entered the Prussian territory, and changed carriages. The

Prussian carriages are very much more roomy and comfortable. The pace we

went, when going, was very great, so that I heard passengers call out

from the windows imploring that the speed might be lessened. Much time

was lost, however, at every one of the numerous stations, where the

carriage-doors were thrown open with the announcement of stopping for

_funfzehn minuten_, or _funf minuten_, or even _drei minuten_, (fifteen,

five and three minutes,) when the passengers poured out, and comforted

themselves with all sorts of slight refreshments—light wine, light beer,

light cakes and cherries, nothing much in themselves, but a good deal of

it—offered by a whole crowd of dealers in such wares. On arriving at

Berlin we went to the hotel Stadt Rom, Unter-den-Linden, which we find

very comfortable, the host attentive, and the _table d’hôte_ good.

We are here in the best street, which has a double avenue of lime-trees

in the middle, running its whole length. One way it leads to the

Brandenburg gate, the other to a spot that forms the beauty of Berlin as

a capital—a wide open space, graced by a beautiful fountain, and an

immense basin of polished granite, made from one of those remarkable

boulders found on the sandy plain, fifty miles from Berlin; adorned also

by the colonnade of the New Museum, opposite to which stands the

Guard-house, the Italian Opera, and the University. The building of the

Arsenal is near, and the whole forms a splendid assemblage of buildings.

After dinner, we have walked under the lime-trees to the Brandenburg

gate—a most beautiful portal, built on the model of the Propylæum at

Athens, on a larger scale. Napoleon carried off the car of Victory which

decorates the top; it was brought back after the battle of Waterloo.

Before its capture it was placed as if leaving the city behind, to rush

forward on the world; on its return, it was placed returning to and

facing the city. The square before this gate is chiefly inhabited by

foreign Ministers: Lord Burghersh has his house here. Outside are

extensive public gardens, in the usual foreign style—that is, numerous

avenues of trees, in a herbless sandy soil.

28TH JULY.

Our first visit in the morning was to the Museum. It is at some little

distance from the hotel, and the walk led us through the best part of

Berlin. The building itself is beautiful; the grand circular hall by

which you reach the statue-gallery, and which again you look down upon

from the open gallery that leads to the pictures, surpasses in elegance

and space anything I have ever seen, except in the Vatican. At once we

rushed among the pictures—our only inducement, except curiosity to see a

renowned capital city, to visit Berlin. The gallery is admirably

arranged in schools, and the pictures have an excellent light on them;

and in each room is hung up a list of pictures and their painters

contained in it. First we saw the Io, of Correggio, a most lovely

picture, and near it Leda and the Swan, by the same artist; and then our

eyes were attracted to one still lovelier in its chaste and divine

beauty—a Virgin and Child by Raphael. The Mother is holding a book in

one hand, the other arm encircles her infant. It bears the impress of

the first style of the divinest of painters, when his warm heart was

animated by pious enthusiasm, and his imagination inspired by a

celestial revelation of pure beauty. It was once the gem of the Colonna

Gallery at Rome, and was sold by the Duke of Lanti to the King of

Prussia.

Next to these I was most struck by a picture by Francia, the Virgin in

glory, worshipped by six saints. There is a remarkable picture by

Rembrandt, a portrait of the Duke Adolph of Gueldres, shaking his fist

at his father. The countenance bears the liveliest impress of angry

passion: the impious madness of the parricide mantles in the face, and

gives wild energy to the furious gesture. The gallery is rich in

portraits by Van Dyck—some of his finest: but I must not send you a mere

catalogue. From room to room we wandered; sometimes desirous of seeing

all, and so penetrating into every nook—sometimes satisfied to sit for

hours before a masterpiece.