slices of two sorts of fish, literally _raw_. It seemed to be
regarded as a rare delicacy, but I could not stretch my politeness
enough to do justice to it. The dinner, otherwise, was excellent. You
know the old man who made the 'Bubbles from the Brunens,' feelingly
describes his consternation at the never-ending courses of a German
public table; but he does not mention two-thirds of the dishes I have
tasted at a single sitting. The feast commences, all the world over,
with soup; then comes the dry _soup-meat_, 'which a Grosvenor-Square
cat would not touch with his whiskers!' but which is nevertheless
rendered quite palatable by a highly-seasoned gravy; then, cutlets,
omelets, and _messes_ of various sorts; followed by poultry, wild
fowls, beef, etc.; fifthly, pudding, which with _us_ is a sign that
the meat is disposed of; but lo! 'sixthly and lastly' comes a huge
quarter of veal, roast chickens, _young_ lobsters, salad, etc.;
seventhly, tarts and confectionary; 'and, to conclude, a dessert of
prunes, grapes, peaches, cakes, etc., the whole capped by sundry
nibbles at a fair, round cheese, or peradventure, as to-day, with
coffee, in Lilliputian cups, which I took for baby's play-things.
Verily, one has a chance of finding _something_ to his taste in this
variety.
After dinner, Mr. Tauchnitz ordered his barouche, with two beautiful
bays, and a footman in livery, (Mr. T. is a book-seller,) and we
rode out to the field of the memorable battle of 1813, about a mile
from the town. The whole vicinity of Leipsic, for several miles, is
one vast plain, which has always been, and probably will continue to
be, the theatre of battles, when the nations of Europe see fit to
fight at all. We walked to a slight elevation, where Napoleon had
his head-quarters during the battle. The French had garrisoned the
town for six years previous; consequently they had their choice of
position. Napoleon had made a _mouvement retrograde_ from Dresden,
after giving up his second expedition to Russia; he was followed
by the allied army, and here they met. Three days' hard fighting,
and the slaughter of twenty thousand men, was the consequence. The
French were routed; but their possession of the town enabled them to
proceed in their retrograde toward Frankfort, (the same route I had
come,) and on the fourth day the allies entered Leipsic. Mr. T. was
on the field during the fight, and he gave me a graphic description
of it. '_Here_ stood Blucher, with his Prussians; _there_, Prince
Swartzenberg and the Austrians.' What a scene of horror must that
field have been, when twenty thousand human beings lay there, bloody
corpses, and half as many more had fallen, wounded and mangled,
sighing for death as a relief from their misery!
Otho, the young king of Greece, is now in Leipsic on a visit. He
is shortly to be married to a German princess, whose name I have
forgotten.
* * * * *
MAYENCE, SEPT. 13.--At six, P. M., on the tenth, I was again in the
diligence. There were but three passengers; one of them asked me in
German to sit with him in the interior, but having persuaded him
in English into a _coupé_ seat, he complacently remarked that he
was pretty sure, from the first, that I was English. I declined the
honor, with equal good nature. 'Scotch?' No. 'Irish?' No. He looked
puzzled. 'You must have spoken English from childhood?' 'Yes. I never
spoke any other language.' 'Perhaps you have resided some time in
England?' Never was there but three months.' Curious whether he would
discover me, I kept mum.
'From the East Indies?' No. 'But you are a British subject?' Oh, no.
I acknowledge no king whatever.
'South America?'(!) No.
And, strange to say, I was the first, after all, to hint that there
was a republic usually called the United States of America. It did
not occur to him, at the moment, that the English language was known
to _some_ extent in 'our country;' but singularly enough, when the
happy land was mentioned, I found him far from being ignorant of it.
He had read of our 'manners' from his own Duke of Saxe-Weimar down
to Captain Hall and the Trollope; and he was now writing a critical
essay on American poetry. In short, he was Dr. O. L. B. WOLFF,
professor of belles-lettres in the University of Jena; the author,
you will recollect, of the History of German Literature in the
London Athenæum, and of other essays which have made his name well
known with us. He seemed a good deal interested in our literature,
and we beguiled the hours far into the night, in learned talk,
parting near the battle-field of Jena, with mutual promises of future
correspondence.
The road lies over several memorable fields. Near Lutzen, they
pointed to a stone, '_Voila la, Gustave tombeau!_' It was the spot
where the 'Great Gustavus' Adolphus fell, in the thirty years' war.
We passed the house where Charles XII. of Sweden signed his treaty
with the Elector of Saxony. At Erfurt is the cell where Martin Luther
lived when he was an Augustine friar. At Gotha, Weimar, Eisenbach,
and Fulda, the capitals of their respective duchies, are the
'chateaux de residence.'
The approaches to most of the continental towns are through long
avenues, shaded by elms or poplars, extending sometimes a couple of
miles. One naturally looks for something handsome, after passing such
an imposing portal; but it does not always follow. One of the finest
of these triumphal arches leads to a filthy hamlet, which would
disgrace our backwoods.
They have a peculiar costume, at one of these towns; but in general,
there is no costume in Germany. Both at Frankfort and Leipsic, I
noticed two remarkable items, the Jews and the pretty girls. The
Jews wear long black gowns and girdles, with beards of nearly equal
length. They seem to be here a distinct and 'peculiar people.' As to
the German ladies, there is certainly more beauty among them than I
have seen elsewhere in Europe.
My second entrance into Frankfort was from a better point of view,
crossing the stone bridge over the Main. I had been riding four
nights, _sans_ sleep, and in the vulgar phrase, was 'quite done up.'
It was of course delightful to find that the 'fair' had so thoroughly
filled the domicils of every publican in the place, that not a nook
or a corner in all those immense hotels was to be had for love or
money. I wandered here and there, houseless and alone, till dusk,
with a fair prospect of a loafer-like lodging in the street! This was
actually the only alternative to going off at ten, P. M., to Mayence.
There were probably at least ten thousand strangers in the place at
that moment.
The entrance into Mayence, at one o'clock at night, was quite
_impressive_. On the opposite side of the river, in Cassel, is an
extensive military establishment, through the gates and court of
which we had to pass. The postillion sounded a martial air on his
trumpet, and the sentinel, opening the ponderous gates, admitted us
to the bridge of boats on which we crossed the Rhine to the city.
Every thing was still and quiet, but our rumbling diligence; the
stars and the lights of the town were looking at their portraits in
the river. At the city portals, another blast of the trumpet[10]
procured us admission, but no living thing was to be seen, except
the military 'guardians of the night.'
To-day it rains torrents. So I will merely tell you, in guide-book
style, that Mayence, as well as Cologne, owes its origin to the
Romans, and was occasionally the residence of some of the emperors.
The city has also been an electorate of the German empire, but at
present it belongs to Prussia; and it is remarkable, that with a
population of thirty-two thousand, it has a garrison of twelve
thousand soldiers. It claims the honor of being the birth-place of
Guttenberg, one, at least, of the inventors of printing, of whom
there is a statue in one of the squares. I have been to see the
cathedral, noted only for antiquity, and for the numerous monuments
and statues of church dignitaries in the interior.
* * * * *
COBLENTZ, (ON THE RHINE,) SEPTEMBER.--The steam-boat left the quay
at Mayence this morning at six, with about one hundred passengers,
mostly English, on their homeward retreat. For two or three miles,
the banks of the river continued to be low and tame. We passed the
palace of the Grand Duke of Nassau, a fine edifice, near the river
The classical Brunnens of Langen-Schwalbach are a few miles in the
interior.
We were this day to see the only interesting part of the 'glorious
Rhine,' that between Mayence and Cologne. Along here, there are a
plenty of little islands, and the banks of the river abound with
picturesque rocky crags, capped by ruins of castles, and relieved
here and there by a green meadow, a vineyard, or a neat village.
Johannisberg, a chateau belonging to Prince Metternich, is one of the
first from Mayence. This estate has fifty-five acres of vine-grounds,
from whence comes the most celebrated of the Rhenish wines.
Speaking of Metternich, I need not remind you of his portraiture
as 'Beckendorf,' in that unique production, 'Vivian Grey.' Then we
passed the ruins of Klopp and Ehrenfels,[11] Vantsberg castle, at
present occupied, from which we were saluted with a gun; the ruins
of Falkenberg, Guttenfels, Schöenberg, and the rocks of 'the Seven
Sisters' in the river;[12] Sternberg and Liebenstein, 'the Brothers,'
etc., all famed by many a pathetic legend. There are also the pretty
villages of Rudesheim, Geisenheim, Bingen, Oberwesel, Saint Goar, and
others, too tedious to mention; and the rock of Lureley, with an echo
which repeats seven times.
I am now before the castle of Ehrenbreitstein, the strongest fortress
in Europe, built on a rocky elevation, commanding the river for
several miles. The city of Coblentz, nearly opposite, and connected
with it by a floating bridge, is strongly fortified, and garrisoned
by five thousand Prussian soldiers. It was founded by Drusus, the
Roman general, thirteen years before Christ.
* * * * *
COLOGNE, 14TH.--I am now in the ancient and honorable city of 'Les
Trois Rois,' and of the eleven thousand virgins.
On leaving Coblentz, the shores are again 'flat and stale,' (though
perhaps not 'unprofitable' to the vinters,) until thou comest unto
Remagen, when there are a few miles of the picturesque, and then the
_scenery_ of the Rhine is finished. On the score of natural beauty,
it would take a good many Rhines to make a Hudson; but, as Willis
says, _here_ we are constantly reminded of the _past_; history,
tradition, and song, have given every thing a charm, and even these
rough old ruins are tinted with a _couleur de rose_; but amidst the
hills, and streams, and forests, of the so-called _new_ world, our
thoughts stretch forward to the future. We have already the rich
material, and perhaps the time will come when Europe may not claim
superiority, even in works of art, or in historical associations
and reminiscences; albeit we have no princely palaces or baronical
strongholds, and, thanks to our democratic rulers! we are in no
immediate danger of them.
But the Rhine is interesting--intensely so; and I can only regret, my
dear ----, that you are not here to share with me this long-wished
for pleasure.
'The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scatter'd cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strew'd a scene which I should see
With double joy, wert _thou_ with me.
'And peasant girls with deep blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise;
Above, the frequent feudal towers
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray,
And many a rock which steeply lowers,
And noble arch in proud decay,
Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;
But one thing want these banks of Rhine--
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine.
'The river nobly foams and flows,
The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose
Some fresher beauty varying round;
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound
Through life to dwell delighted here;
Nor could on earth a spot be found
To nature and to me more dear,
Could thy dear eyes, in following mine,
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine.'
If misery loves company, as the proverb says, why should not
happiness be also sociably disposed? There is to me a special
loneliness in being in these regions of song, with a crowd of
strangers, but with no 'congenial spirit' who in after days would
recall to us the fond recollection of happy hours passed together in
the distant land; who with a single word might bring vividly before
us a glowing panorama of scenes remembered as a dream. And is there
not as much or more enjoyment in these remembrances, than in the
'first impression?'
Beside the Drachenfels, there are a score of ruins this side of
Coblentz, such as Rolandzeck, Godesberg, and other hard names; and
we also passed the pretty town of Bonn, the seat of an ancient and
well-endowed university. From one of the castles, near the river, we
were saluted with three cheers by the garrison.
To-morrow I shall write from Aix-la-Chapelle, for here I must say,
albeit not in the Byronic vein,
'Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long delighted
The stranger fain would linger on his way;
Thine is a scene alike where souls united,
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray;
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here,
Where nature, not too sombre nor too gay,
Wild, but not rude, awful, but not austere,
Is to the mellow earth as autumn to the year.'
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Flowing in and from the lake.
[2] See also 'Anne of Gierstein.'
[3] A heap of bones of the vanquished remain to this day on the field.
[4] The costume is worn only by the peasantry.
[5] The Rhigi is not remarkable for its height, being but five
thousand seven hundred feet above the plain; but being isolated from
the great range, it affords much the widest view.
[6] See his calculation in figures, in 'Sketches of Switzerland.'
[7] The others are Hamburgh, Bremen, and Lubeck.
[8] The average number of new works per annum, issued for the first
time in Great Britain in the last three years, is about 1200; in
France, 4,000; in Germany, 6,000.
[9] A happy combination of safety, beauty, and convenience, is shown
in the ramparts of the city of Geneva.
[10] The 'Old Man' of the Bubbles denounces these trumpets, but
verily they are preferable to the long tin horns of the English
'guards,' which are indeed enough to
----'break his bands of sleep asunder
And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder!
Hark, hark! the horrid sound;
He raises his head as if waked from the dead,
And amazed he stares around!'
[11] Among the Rhenish legends, versified by Planche, is one of the
'Mouse-Tower,' near Ehrenfels, commencing:
'The Bishop of Mentz was a wealthy prince.
Wealthy and proud was he;
He had all that was worth a wish on earth,
But he had not charitie!
He would stretch out his _empty_ hands to _bless_,
Or lift them both to _pray_;
But, alack! to lighten man's distress,
They moved no other way.'
A famine came; the poor begged in vain for aid, 'till he 'opened his
granaries free,' and then locked them in, and 'burned them every
one.' 'The merry mice! how shrill they squeak!' said the prelate:
'But mark what an awful judgment soon
On the cruel bishop fell!
With so many mice his palace swarm'd,
That in it he could not dwell.
They gnaw'd the arras above and beneath,
They eat each savory dish up,
And shortly their sacrilegious teeth
Begun to nibble the bishop!
'He flew to the castle of Ehrenfels,
By the side of the Rhine so fair,
But they found the road to his new abode,
And came in legions there!
He built him in haste a tower tall
In the tide, for his better assurance,
But they swam the river, and scal'd the wall,
And worried him past endurance!
'One morning his skeleton there was seen,
By a load of flesh the lighter!
They had pick'd his bones uncommonly clean,
And eaten his very mitre!
Such was the end of the Bishop of Mentz;
And oft at midnight hour,
He comes in the shape of a fog so dense,
And sits on his old 'Mouse-Tower.'
[12] Perhaps you may be amused by this legend. It runs as follows:
'THE Castle of Schöenberg was lofty and fair,
And seven countesses ruléd there:
Lovely, and noble, and wealthy I trow--
Every sister had suitors enow.
Crowned duke and belted knight
Sigh'd at the feet of those ladies bright:
And they whispered hope to every one,
While they vow'd in their hearts they would have none!
Gentles, list to the tale I tell;
'Tis many a year since this befel:
Women are altered now, I ween,
And never say what they do not mean!
'At the Castle of Schöenberg 'twas merriment all--
There was dancing in bower, and feasting in hall;
They ran at the ring in the tilt-yard gay,
And the moments flew faster than thought away!
But not only moments--the days fled too--
And they were but as when they first came to woo;
And spake they of marriage or bliss deferr'd,
They were silenced by laughter and scornful word!
Gentles, list to the tale I tell;
'Tis many a year since this befel:
And ladies now so mildly reign,
They never sport with a lover's pain!
'Knight look'd upon knight with an evil eye--
Each fancied a favored rival nigh;
And darker every day they frowned,
And sharper still the taunt went round;
Till swords were drawn, and lances in rest,
And the blood ran down from each noble breast;
While the sisters sat in their chairs of gold,
And smiled at the fall of their champions bold!
Gentles, lift to the tale I tell;
'Tis many a year since this befel;
Times have changed, and we must allow,
Countesses are not so cruel now.
'Morning dawn'd upon Schöenberg's towers,
But the sisters were not in their wonted bowers;
Their damsels sought them the castle o'er--
But upon earth they were seen no more;
Seven rocks are in the tide,
Ober-wesel's walls beside,
Baring their cold brows to heaven:
They are called, 'The Sisters Seven.'
Gentles, list to the tale I tell;
'Tis many a year since this befel:
And ladies now may love deride,
And their suitors alone be petrified!'
THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.
'THEIR voice shall be heard in other ages,
When the kings of Temora have failed.'
OSSIAN.
YE say, we sing no household songs,
To those beside our hearths at play;
No minstrelsy to us belongs,
No legends of our by-gone day:
No old traditions of the hills,
Our giant land no memory fills--
We have no proud heroic lay!
Ye ask the time-worn storied page--
Ye ask the things of other age,
From us--a race of yesterday!
Of yore, in Britain's feudal halls,
Where many a warlike trophy hung,
With shield and banner on the walls,
The bard's high harp was sternly strung
To praise of war--its fierce delights--
To 'heroes of an hundred fights,'
Ever the 'sounding shell' outrung!
Gone is the ancient Bardic race--
Their song hath found perpetual place
Their country's proud archives among!
The warlike Norsemen of the isles,
Erst o'er the wave held sovereignty--
A sound is swelling where, erewhile,
Their ringing spears made melody:
Rude hunters of the seal and whale
Are chaunting out the Saga's tale,
To the wild winds sweeping by--
How their heroes heard the Valkyriur call
To the feast and song in Odin's hall--
To the white mead foaming high!
The stirring Scottish border tale,
Pealed from the chords in chieftain's hall--
The wild traditions of the Gäel,
The wandering harper's lays recall:
All have their legends, and their songs--
Records of glory, feud, and wrongs.
What nerved the fair chivalric Gaul,
When woke the bold 'Parisienne?'
The 'Marsellois?' _what_ foeman then
Roused him to conquer or to fall?
What thought the Switzer's bosom thrills,
When sounds the 'Ranz de Vache' on high;
A race as ancient as their hills,
Still echoes their wild mountain cry:
He springs along the rocky height--
He marks the lammergeyer's flight--
The chamois bounding by:
He snuffs the mountain breeze of morn--
He winds again the mountain horn,
And the loud Alps reply!
Our fathers bore from Albion's isle,
No stories of her sounding lyres--
They left the old baronial pile--
They left the harp of ringing wires!
Ours are the legends old and dim,
The household song--the evening hymn,
Sung by your bright hearth-fires!
Each tree that in your soft wind stirs,
Waves o'er our ancient sepulchres--
The ashes of our sires!
Yea, forth they went, nerved to forsake
Home, and the chains they might not bear--
And woman's heart was strong, to break
The links of love which bound her there.
Here, free to worship and believe,
From many a log-built hut, at eve,
Went up the suppliant voice of prayer.
Is it not writ on history's page,
How the strong arm claimed _our heritage_?--
Of the lion claimed his lair!
Our people sang no loud war-songs,
They shouted no loud battle-cry--
A burning memory of their wrongs
Lit up their path to victory!
With prayer to God to aid the right,
The yeoman girded him for fight,
To free the land he tilled, or die!
They bore no proud escutcheon'd shield--
No blazoned banners to the field--
Nought but their motto--'LIBERTY!'
Their sons--when after years shall fling
O'er these romance--when time hath cast
The mighty shadow of his wing
Between them and the stoned past--
Will tell of foul oppression's heel,
Of hands which bore the avenging steel,
And battled sternly to the last--
By their hearth-fires--on the hill-side free,
Till the swell is caught by the echöing sea,
And hymned by the wandering blast!
IONE.
THE DEAD HUSBAND.[13]
BY ALPHONSO WETMORE, ESQ., AUTHOR OF THE 'GAZETTEER OF MISSOURI.'
MORE than one half of the inhabitants of the globe have an imperfect
idea of the sufferings that are endured by their kindred, even in
the vicinity of their own dwellings. The same laudable sentiment
that induces display of the elegancies of life, causes concealment
of our miseries, or humiliating misfortunes. The social feeling
which induces us to lend aid to a neighbor in peril, or in the full
tide of prosperous action, tends to the exhibition of our good
fortune; it is sympathy in both instances. It is the sufferer who
seeks concealment, having no flattering prospects to offer for the
congratulations of the sympathetic. It is the jealous distrust of our
natures that induces the pedestrian, who is toiling onward with a
humid brow, to cast a nervous and discontented glance at the tenants
of the post-coach, as it darts onward; and he welcomes the cloud of
dust that insures concealment of his woes, created only by contrast.
It is only when crime brings suffering on the innocent kindred of the
criminal, that there exists serious cause of discontent.
JOSEPH JOPLIN was one of half a dozen sons of a tavern-keeper in
the county of Buncombe, North Carolina; and consequently he became
initiated in early life into the ways of the world; by which general
expression, it may be in this case understood, an acquaintance with
whiskey and tar-kilns, long rifles, and quarter-races. When this
younger son of the publican of the 'Piny Woods' had nearly attained
the stature of the family standard, six feet three inches, and a
few months before he had reached his twentieth year, he led up
before the township justice of the peace a hope-inspired damsel. She
vowed herself his partner, in weal and wo, in life and death. His
circumstances at the time were only middling. He owned 'a likely
young nag, a dollar bill, and a good rifle-gun.'
A few months after the festivities of the nuptials had left the
sober realities of life in bold relief, the young couple began to
look beyond the precincts of the paternal double cabins, in order to
fix the trace leading to the most inviting region. Their departure
was accelerated by 'a small scrimmage,' in which Mr. Joplin was
unfortunately a principal actor, at a shooting-match. His antagonist
had darkened the manly disc of our hero a little; but then the young
bridegroom boasted that he had taken an 'under bit out of his left
ear, and stove two of his front teeth down his throat.'
The young couple departed with the buoyancy of hope, (that flattering
endorser of accommodation paper,) for the western district; the
husband on foot, leading in the devious pathway of his bride, who was
mounted on the nag. This animal was well laden with household stuffs,
consisting principally of quilts and 'kiverlids.'
The adventurers reached the point of destination, six miles from the
last cabin, on the borders of the Indian country, in season to make
a crop. When the corn was gathered in, the fall hunt half finished,
the venison drying, and the 'bear bacon' cured, the Indian Summer,
with its mild haze, shed a soft and cheering influence upon the
new-beginners.