The old count Kuno seized with a trembling hand the pilgrim's staff--he
wished to seek peace for his soul, for long repentance consumed his
life. Years ago he had banished from his presence his blooming son,
because he loved a maiden of ignoble race. The son, marrying her,
secretly withdrew. For some time the Count remained in his castle in
good spirits--looked cheerfully down the valley--heard the stream rush
under his windows--thought little of perishable life. His tender wife
watched over him, and her lovely daughter renovated his sinking life;
but he who lives in too great security is marked in the end by the hand
of God, and while it takes from him what is most beloved, it warns him
that here is not our place of abode.
The "Haus-frau" (wife) died, and the Count buried the companion of
his days; his daughter was solicited by the most noble of the land,
and because he wished to ingraft this last shoot on a noble stem, he
allowed her to depart, and then solitary and alone he remained in his
fortress. So stands deserted upon the summit of the mountain, with
withered top, an oak!--moss is its last ornament--the storm sports with
its last few dry leaves.
A gay circle no longer fills the vaulted chambers of the castle--no
longer through them does the cheerful goblet's "clang" resound. The
Count's nightly footsteps echo back to him, and by the glimmer of the
chandeliers the accoutred images of his ancestors appear to writhe
and move on the wall as if they wished to speak to him. His armour,
sullied by the web of the vigilant spider, he could not look at without
sorrowful emotion. Its gentle creaking against the wall made him
shudder.
"Where art thou," he mournfully exclaimed, "thou who art banished? oh
my son, wilt thou think of thy father, as he of thee thinks--or ....
art thou dead? and is that thy flitting spirit which rustles in my
armour, and so feebly moves it? Did I but know where to find thee,
willingly to the world's end would I in repentant wandering journey--so
heavily it oppresses me, what I have done to thee;--I can no longer
remain--forth will I go to the God of Mercy, in order, before the image
of Christ, in the Garden of Olives, to expiate my sins!"
So spoke the aged man--enveloped his trembling limbs in the garb
of repentance--took the cockle-hat--and seized with the right hand
(that formerly was accustomed to the heavy war-sword) the light long
pilgrim's staff. Quietly he stole out of the castle, the steep path
descending, while the porter looked after him astounded, without
demanding "Whither?"
For many days the old man's feet bore him wide away; at last he reached
a small village, in the middle of which, opposite to a ruined castle,
there stands a very ancient plane-tree. Five arms, each resembling
a stem, bend towards the earth, and almost touch it. The old men of
former times were sitting underneath it, in the still evening, just
as the Count went by; he was greeted by them, and invited to repose.
As he seated himself by their side, "You have a beautiful plane-tree,
neighbours," he said.
"Yes," replied the oldest of the men, pleased with the praise bestowed
by the pilgrim on the tree, "it was nevertheless PLANTED IN BLOOD!"
"How is that?" said the Count.
"That will I also relate," said the old man. "Many years ago there
came a young man here, in knightly garb, who had a young woman with
him, beautiful and delicate, but, apparently from their long journey,
worn out. Pale were her cheeks, and her head, covered with beautiful
golden locks, hung upon her conductor's shoulder. Timidly he looked
round--for, from some reason, he appeared to fear all men, yet, in
compassion for his feeble companion, he wished to conduct her to some
secure hut, where her tender feet might repose. There, under that
ivy-grown tower, stands a lonely house, belonging to the old lord of
the castle; thither staggered the unhappy man with his dear burden, but
scarcely had he entered the dwelling, than he was seized by the Prince,
with whose niece he was clandestinely eloping. Then was the noble
youth brought bound, and where this plane-tree now spreads its roots
flowed his young blood! The maiden went into a convent; but before she
disappeared, she had this plane-tree planted on the spot where the
blood of her lover flowed: since then it is as if a spirit life were in
the tree that cannot die, and no one likes a little twig to cut off, or
pluck a cluster of blossom, because he fears it would bleed."
"God's will be done!" exclaimed suddenly the old Count, and departed.
"That is an odd man," said the most venerable of the peasants, eyeing
the stranger who was hastening away; "he must have something that
heavily oppresses his soul, for he speaks not, and hastens away; but,
neighbours, the evening draws on apace, and the evenings in spring are
not warm; I think in the white clouds yonder, towards the Rhine, are
still concealed some snow-storms--let us come to the warm hearth."
The neighbours went their way, while the aged Count, in deep thought,
passed up through the village, at the end of which he found himself
before the churchyard. Terrific black crosses looked upon the
traveller--the graves were netted over with brambles and wild roses--no
foot tore asunder the entwinement. On the right hand of the road there
stands a crucifix, hewn with rude art. From a recess in its pedestal a
flame rises towards the bloody feet of the image, from a lamp nourished
by the hand of devotion.
"Man of sorrow," thus ascended the prayer of the traveller, "give me my
son again--by thy wounds and sufferings give me peace--peace!"
He spoke, and turning round towards the mountain, he followed a narrow
path which conducted him to a brook, close under the flinty, pebbly
grape hill. The soft murmurs of its waves rippling here and there over
clear, bright stones harmonized with his deep devotion. Here the Count
found a boy and a girl, who, having picked flowers, were watching them
carried away as they threw them into the current.
When these children saw the pilgrim's reverend attire, they
arose--looked up--seized the old man's hand, and kissed it. "God bless
thee, children!" said the pilgrim, whom the touch of their little hands
pleased. Seating himself on the ground, he said, "Children, give me to
drink out of your pitcher."
"You will find it taste good out of it, stranger-man," said the little
girl; "it is our father's pitcher in which we carry him to drink upon
the vine-hill. Look, yonder, he works upon the burning rocks--alas!
ever since the break of day; our mother often takes out food to him."
"Is that your father," said the Count, "who with the heavy pickaxe
is tearing up the ground so manfully, as if he would crush the rocks
beneath?"
"Yes," said the boy, "our father must sweat a good deal before the
mountain will bring forth grapes; but when the vintage comes, then how
gay is the scene!"
"Where does thy father dwell, boy?"
"There in the valley beneath, where the white gable end peeps between
the trees: come with us, stranger-man, our mother will most gladly
receive you, for it is her greatest joy when a tired wanderer calls in
upon us."
"Yes," said the little girl, "then we always have the best dishes;
therefore _do_ come--I will conduct thee."
So saying, the little girl seized the old Count's hand, and drew
him forth--the boy, on the other side, keeping up with them, sprung
backwards and forwards, continually looking kindly at the stranger, and
thus, slowly advancing, they arrived at the hut.
The Haus-frau (wife) was occupied in blowing the light ashes to
awaken a slumbering spark, as the pilgrim entered: at the voices of
her children she looked up, saw the stranger, and raised herself
immediately; advancing towards him with a cheerful countenance, she
said--
"Welcome, reverend pilgrim, in this poor hut--if you stand in need of
refreshment after your toilsome pilgrimage, seek it from us; do not
carry the blessing which you bring with you farther."
Having thus spoken, she conducted the old man into the small but clean
room. When he had sat down, he said--
"Woman! thou hast pretty and animated children; I wish I had such a boy
as that!"
"Yes!" said the Haus-frau, "he resembles his father--free and
courageously he often goes alone upon the mountain, and speaks of
castles he will build there. Ah! Sir, if you knew how heavy that weighs
upon my heart!"--(the woman concealed a tear).
"Counsel may here be had," said the Count; "I have no son, and will of
yours, if you will give him me, make a knight--my castle will some of
these days be empty--no robust son bears my arms."
"Dear mother!" said the boy, "if the castle of the aged man is empty, I
can surely, when I am big, go thither?"
"And leave me here alone?" said the mother.
"No, you will also go!" said the boy warmly; "How beautiful is it to
look from the height of a castle into the valley beneath!"
"He has a true knightly mind," said the Count; "is he born here in the
valley?"
"Prayer and labour," said the mother, "is God's command, and they are
better than all the knightly honours that you can promise the boy--he
will, like his father, cultivate the vine, and trust to the blessing
of God, who rain and sunshine gives: knights sit in their castles and
know not how much labour, yet how much blessing and peace can dwell in
a poor man's hut! My husband was oppressed with heavy sorrow; alas! on
my account was his heartfelt grief; but since he found this hut, and
works here, he is much more cheerful than formerly; from the tempest of
life he has entered the harbour of peace--patiently he bears the heat
of the day, and when I pity him he says, 'Wife, I am indeed now happy;'
yet frequently a troubled thought appears to pierce his soul--I watch
him narrowly--a tear then steals down his brown cheeks. Ah! surely he
thinks of the place of his birth--of a now very aged grey father--and
whilst I see you, a tear also comes to me--so is perhaps now--"
At this minute, the little girl interrupted her, pulled her gently by
the gown, and spoke--
"Mother! come into the kitchen; our father will soon be home."
"You are right," said the mother, leaving the room; "in conversation I
forget myself."
In deep meditation the aged Count sat and thought, "Where may, then,
this night my son sleep ....?"
Suddenly he was roused from his deep melancholy by the lively boy, who
had taken an old hunting-spear from the corner of the room, and placing
himself before the Count, said--
"See! thus my father kills the wild boar on the mountains--there runs
one along! My father cries 'Huy!' and immediately the wild boar throws
himself upon the hunter's spear; the spear sticks deep into the brain!
it is hard enough to draw it out!" The boy made actions as if the boar
was there.
"Right so, my boy!" said the aged man; "but does thy father, then,
often hunt upon these mountains?"
"Yes! that he does, and the neighbours praise him highly, and call him
the valiant extirpator, because he kills the boars which destroy the
corn!"
In the midst of this conversation the father entered; his wife ran
towards him, pressed his sinewy hand, and spoke--
"You have had again a hot labouring day!"
"Yes," said the man, "but I find the heavy pickaxe light in hand when I
think of you. God is gracious to the industrious and honest labourer,
and that he feels truly when he has sweated through a long day."
"Our father is without!" cried suddenly the boy; threw the hunter's
spear into the middle of the room, and ran forwards. The little girl
was already hanging at his knees.
"Good evening, father," cried the boy, "come quick into the
room,--there sits a stranger-man--a pilgrim whom I have brought to you!"
"Ah! there you have done well," said the father, "one must not allow
one tired to pass one's gate without inviting him in. Dear wife,"
continued he, "does not labour well reward itself, when one can receive
and refresh a wanderer? Bring us a glass of our best home-grown wine--I
do not know why I am so gay to-day, and why I do not experience the
slightest fatigue."
Thus spoke the husband--went into the room--pressed the hand of the
stranger, and spoke--
"Welcome, pious pilgrim! your object is so praiseworthy; a draught
taken with so brave a man must taste doubly good!"
They sat down opposite to each other in a room half dark--the children
sat upon their father's knees.
"Relate to us something, father, as usual!" said the boy.
"That won't do to-day," replied the father; "for we have a guest
here--but what does my hunter's spear do there? have you been again
playing with it? carry it away into the corner."
"You have there," said the pilgrim, "a young knight who knows already
how to kill boars--also you are, I hear, a renowned huntsman in this
valley; therefore you have something of the spirit of a knight in you."
"Yes!" said the vine-labourer, "old love rusts not, neither does the
love of arms; so often as I look upon that spear, I wish it were there
for some use ... formerly ... but, aged sir, we will not think of the
past! Wife! bring to the revered--"
At this minute the Haus-frau entered, placed a jug and goblets on the
table, and said--
"May it refresh and do thee good!"
"That it does already," said the pilgrim, "presented by so fair a hand,
and with such a friendly countenance!"
The Haus-frau poured out, and the men drank, striking their glasses
with a good clank; the little girl slipped down from her father's knee,
and ran with the mother into the kitchen; the boy looked wistfully into
his father's eyes smilingly, and then towards the pitcher--the father
understood him, and gave him some wine; he became more and more lively,
and again smiled at the pitcher.
"This boy will never be a peaceful vine-labourer, as I am," said the
father; "he has something of the nature of his grandfather in him:
hot and hasty, but in other respects a good-hearted boy--brave and
honourable... Alas! the remembrance of what is painful is most apt to
assail one by a cheerful glass... If he did but see thee ... thee ...
child of the best and most affectionate mother--on thy account he would
not any longer be offended with thy father and mother; thy innocent
gambols would rejoice his old age--in thee would he see the fire of his
youth revive again--but..."
"What dost thou say there?" said the pilgrim, stopping him abruptly;
"explain that more fully to me!"
"Perhaps I have already said too much, reverend father, but ascribe it
to the wine, which makes one talkative; I will no more afflict thee
with my unfortunate history."
"SPEAK!" said the pilgrim, vehemently and beseechingly; "SPEAK! who art
thou?"
"What connexion hast thou with the world, pious pilgrim, that you can
still trouble yourself about one who has suffered much, and who has new
arrived at the port of peace?"
"SPEAK!" said the pilgrim; "I must know thy history."
"Well!" replied he, "let it be!--I was not born a vine-labourer--a
noble stem has engendered me--but love for a maiden drove me from my
home."
"Love?" cried the pilgrim, moved.
"Yes! I loved a maiden, quite a child of nature, not of greatness--my
father was displeased--in a sudden burst of passion he drove me from
him--wicked relations, who, he being childless, would inherit, inflamed
his wrath against me, and he, whom I yet honour, and who also surely
still cherishes me in his heart--he..."
The pilgrim suddenly rose and went to the door.
"What is the matter with thee?" said the astonished vine-labourer; "has
this affected thee too much?"
The boy sprang after the aged man, and held him by the hand. "Thou wilt
not depart, pilgrim?" said he.
At this minute the Haus-frau entered with a light. At one glance into
the countenance of the vine-labourer, the aged Count exclaimed, "MY
SON!" and fell motionless into his arms. As his senses returned, the
father and son recognized each other. Adelaide, the noble, faithful
wife, weeping, held the hands of the aged man, while the children knelt
before him.
"Pardon, father!" said the son.
"Grant it to me!" replied the pilgrim, "and grant to your father
a spot in your quiet harbour of peace, where he may end his days.
Son! thou art of a noble nature, and thy lovely wife is worthy of
thee--thy children will resemble thee--no ignoble blood runs in their
veins. Henceforth bear my arms; but, as an honourable remembrance for
posterity, add to them a pilgrim and the pickaxe, that henceforth no
man of high birth may conceive that labour degrades man--or despise the
peasant who in fact nourishes and protects the nobleman."
* * * * *
On leaving Frauenstein, which lies low in the range of the Taunus
hills, I found that every trot my pony took introduced me to a more
genial climate and to more luxuriant crops. But vegetation did not
seem alone to rejoice in the change. The human face became softer and
softer as I proceeded, and the stringy, weather-beaten features of
the mountain peasant were changed for countenances pulpy, fleshy, and
evidently better fed. As I continued to descend, the cows became larger
and fatter, the horses higher as well as stouter, and a few pigs I
met had more lard in their composition than could have been extracted
from the whole Langen-Schwalbach drove, with their old driver, the
Schwein-General, to boot. Jogging onwards, I began at last to fancy
that my own mind was becoming enervated; for several times, after
passing well-dressed people, did I catch myself smoothing with my long
staff the rough, shaggy mane of my pony, or else brushing from my
sleeve some rusty hairs, which a short half-hour ago I should have felt
were just as well sticking upon my coat as on his.
Instead of keen, light mountain air, I now felt myself overpowered
by a burning sun; but, in compensation, Nature displayed crops which
were very luxuriant of their sorts. The following is a list of those
I passed, in merely riding from Frauenstein to Mainz; it will give
some idea of the produce of that highly-favoured belt, or district,
of Nassau (known by the name of the Rhein-gau) which lies between the
bottom of the Taunus hills and the Rhine:--
Vineyards
Hop-gardens
Fields of Kidney-beans
Tobacco
Hemp
Flax
Buck Wheat
Kohl-rabi
Mangel Wurzel
Fields of Beans and Peas
Indian Corn
Wheat of various sorts
Barley
Oats
Rye
Rape
Potatoes
Carrots
Turnips
Clover of various sorts
Grass
Lucerne
Tares
Plum Trees of several sorts
Standard Apricots
Peaches
Nectarines
Walnuts
Pears }
Apples } of various sorts
Spanish Chestnuts
Horse Chestnuts
Almonds
Quinces
Medlars
Figs
Wild Raspberries
Wild Gooseberries
Wild Strawberries
Currants
Gooseberries
Whortleberries
Rhubarb
Cabbages of all sorts
Garlick
Tomatos
To any one who has been living in secluded retirement, even for a short
time, a visit to a populous city is a dram, causing an excitement of
the mind, too often mistaken for its refreshment. Accordingly, on my
arrival at Mainz, I must own, for a few minutes, I was gratified with
every human being or animal that I met--at all the articles displayed
in the shops--and for some time, in mental delirium, I revelled in
the bustling scene before me. However, having business of some little
importance to transact, I had occasion, more than once, to walk from
one part of the town to another, until getting leg-weary, I began to
feel that I was not suited to the scene before me; in short, that
the crutches made by Nature for declining life, are quietness and
retirement; I, therefore, longed to leave the sun-shiny scene before
me, and to ascend once again to the clouds of Schlangenbad, from which
I had so lately fallen.
With this object I had mounted my pony, who, much less sentimental
than myself, would probably most willingly have expended the remainder
of his existence in a city which, in less than three hours, had
miraculously poured into his manger three feeds of heavy oats, and I
was actually on the bridge of boats which crosses the Rhine, when,
finding that the saddle was pressing upon his withers, I inquired where
I could purchase any sort of substance to place between them, and
being directed to a tailor celebrated for supplying all the government
postilions with leather breaches, I soon succeeded in reaching a door,
which corresponded with the street and number that had been given to
me; however, on entering, I found nothing but a well staircase, pitch
dark, with a rope instead of a hand rail.
At every landing-place, inquiring for the artist I was seeking, I was
always told to go up higher; at last, when I reached the uppermost
stratum of the building, I entered a room which seemed to be made
of yellow leather, for on two sides buckskins were piled up to the
ceiling; leather breeches, trowsers, drawers, gloves, &c., were hanging
on the other walls, while the great table in the middle of the room
was covered with skinny fragments of all shapes and sizes. In this
new world which I had discovered, the only inhabitants consisted of a
master and his son. The former was a mild tall man of about fifty, but
a human being so very thin, I think, I never before beheld! He wore
neither coat, waistcoat, neckcloth, nor shirt, but merely an elastic
worsted dress (in fact, a Guernsey frock), which fitted him like his
skin, the rest of his lean figure being concealed by a large, loose,
coarse linen apron. The son, who was about twenty-two, was not bad
looking, but "_talis pater, talis filius_," he was just as thin as
his father, and really, though I was anxious hastily to explain what
I wanted, yet my eyes could not help wandering from father to son,
and from son to father, perfectly unable to determine which was the
thinnest; for though one does not expect to find very much power of
body or mind among tailors of any country (nor indeed do they require
it), yet really this pair of them seemed as if they had not strength
enough united to make a pair of knee breeches for a skeleton.
Having gravely explained the simple object of my visit, I managed to
grope my way down and round, and round and down, the well staircase,
stopping only occasionally to feel my way, and to reflect with several
degrees of pity on the poor thin beings I had left above me; and
even when I got down to my pony (he had been waiting for me very
patiently), I am sure we trotted nearly a couple of hundred yards
before I could shake off the wan, spectre-like appearance of the old
man, or the weak, slight, hectic-looking figure of the young one; and I
finished by sentimentally settling in my own mind that the father was
consumptive--that the son was a chip from the same block--and that they
were both galloping, neck and neck, from their breeches-board to their
graves, as hard as they could go.
These reflections were scarcely a quarter of a mile long, when I
discovered that I had left my memorandum-book behind me, and so,
instantly returning, I groped my way to the top of the identical
staircase I had so lately descended. I was there told that the old
gentleman and his son were at dinner, but, determining not to lose
my notes, in I went--and I cannot describe one-hundredth part of the
feelings which came over me, when I saw the two creatures upon whom I
had wasted so much pity and fine sentiment, for there they sat before
me on their shop-board, with an immense wash-hand basin, that had been
full of common blue Orleans plums, which they were still munching with
extraordinary avidity. A very small piece of bread was in each of their
left hands, but the immense number of plum-stones on both sides of them
betrayed the voracity with which they had been proceeding with their
meal.
"THIN!--no wonder you are THIN!" I muttered to myself; "no wonder that
your chests and back bones seem to touch each other!"
Never before had I, among rational beings, witnessed such a repast,
and it really seemed as if nothing could interrupt it, for all the
time I was asking for what I wanted, both father and son were silently
devouring these infernal plums; however, after remounting my pony, I
could not help admitting that the picture was not without its tiny
moral. Two German tailors had been cheerfully eating a vegetable
dinner--so does the Italian who lives on macaroni;--so does the
Irish labourer who lives on potatoes;--so do the French peasants who
eat little but bread;--so do the millions who subsist in India on
rice--in Africa on dates--in the South-Sea Islands and West Indies on
the bread-tree and on yams; in fact, only a very small proportion of
the inhabitants of this globe are carnivorous: yet, in England, we
are so accustomed to the gouty luxury of meat, that it is now almost
looked upon as a necessity; and though our poor, we must all confess,
generally speaking, are religiously patient, yet so soon as the middle
classes are driven from animal to vegetable diet, they carnivorously
both believe and argue that they are in the world remarkable objects
of distress--that their country is in distress--that "things cannot
last;"--in short, pointing to an artificial scale of luxury, which
they themselves have hung up in their own minds, or rather in their
stomachs, they persist that vegetable diet is low diet--that being
without roast beef is living below zero, and that molars, or teeth for
grinding the roots and fruits of the earth, must have been given to
mankind in general, and to the English nation in particular--by mistake.
After re-crossing the Rhine by the bridge of boats, the sun being
oppressively hot, I joyfully bade adieu to the sultry dry city and
garrison of Mainz. As I gradually ascended towards my home, I found
the air becoming cooler and fresher, the herbage greener, and greener,
the foliage of the beech-trees brighter and cleaner; everything in the
valley seemed in peaceful silence to be welcoming my return; and when
I came actually in sight of the hermitage of Schlangenbad, I could not
help muttering to myself, "Hard features--hard life--lean pigs, and
lovely nature, for ever!"