THE RHINE AND RHENISH PRUSSIA.
First glimpse of the Rhine.--Cologne and the
Cathedral.--"Shosef in ter red coat."--St. Ursula
and the eleven thousand virgins.--Up the Rhine to
Bonn.--The German students.--Rolandseck.--A search
for a resting-place.--Our Dutch friend and his
Malays.--The story of Hildegund.--A quiet
Sabbath.--Our Dutch friend's
reply.--Coblentz.--The bridge of
boats.--Ehrenbreitstein, over the river.--A
scorching day upon the Rhine.--Romance under
difficulties.--Mayence.--Frankfort.--Heidelberg.--The
ruined castle.--Baden-Baden.--A glimpse at the
gambling.--The new, and the old "Schloss."--The
Black Forest.--Strasbourg.--The mountains.
WE had made a sweep through Belgium and Holland, intending to return by
way of the Rhine and Switzerland. Accordingly, in leaving Amsterdam, we
struck across the country to Arnhem, where we found a pleasant hotel
near the station, outside of the town. Here we spent the night in order
to break the monotony of the ride to Cologne. After climbing stairs to
gain our room, wide, but so perpendicular that we were really afraid to
descend by them, we had, from a rickety, upper piazza, our first glimpse
of the Rhine, winding through flat, green meadows, with hardly more than
a suggestion of hills in the distance. There is nothing of interest to
detain one at Arnhem. The guide-book informed us that it was the scene
of Sir Philip Sidney's death; but no one in the hotel seemed ever to
have heard of that gentle knight--_sans peur et sans reproche_.
We reached Cologne at noon the next day. The road makes a _detour_
through the plain, so that, for some time before gaining it, we could
see the city nestling under the wings of the great cathedral. How can I
tell you anything about it? If I say that it is five times the length of
any church you know, and that the towers, when completed, are to be the
same height as the length, will my words bring to you any conception of
its size? If I say that it was partially built a couple of centuries
before the discovery of America; that it was worked upon for three
hundred years, and then suffered to remain untouched until recently;
that the architect who planned it has been forgotten for centuries, so
that the idea embodied in its form is like some beautiful old tradition,
whose origin is unknown,--will this give you any idea of its age? The
new part, seen from our hotel, was so white and beautiful, that, when we
had passed around to the farther side, it was like waking from a sleep
of a thousand years. The blackened, broken Gothic front told its own
story of age and decay. Ah, the interminable dusky length of its
interior, when we had crept within the doors! It was a very world in
itself, full of voices, and echoes, and shadows of its own. We followed
the guide over the rough stone floor, giving no heed to the tiresome
details that fell in broken words and monotonous tones from his lips. I
recall nothing now but the fact (!) that behind the choir lie buried,
in all their magnificence, the Three Wise Men of the East. As we came
down one of the shadowy aisles, we paused before a fine, old, stained
window. Our guide immediately became prolix again. "Dis," he said,
pointing to one of the figures upon the glass, "is Shosef, in ter red
coat; and dis is Shon ter Baptised; and dis, ter Holy Ghos' in ter form
off a duff."
When the old woman at the door offered pictures of the cathedral, he
assured us that they were quite correct, having been taken "from
_nature_, _outzide_ and _inzide_."
You must see the old Roman remains of towers and crumbling walls, sniff
the vile odors of the streets, which have become proverbial, and be
sprinkled with cologne--then your duty to the city is done. But almost
everybody visits the Church of St. Ursula, which is lined with the
skulls of that unfortunate young woman and her eleven thousand virgin
followers.
The story is, that she was an English princess, who lived--nobody knows
at what remote period of antiquity. For some reason equally obscure, she
started with her lover and eleven thousand maidens to make a pilgrimage
to Rome. Fancy this lover undertaking a continental tour with eleven
thousand and one young women under his care! Even modern travel presents
no analogy to the case. "And they staid over night at my aunt's," droned
the sleepy guide, who was telling the story. The girls looked at each
other. "Good gracious! what unbounded hospitality!" whispered one. "At
his _aunt's_!" exclaimed a second, somewhat puzzled by the anachronism.
"Don't interrupt," said a third interested listener; "he means
_Mayence_;" and he proceeded with the narrative. They accomplished their
pilgrimage in safety; but, upon their return, were "fetched up py ter
parparians," as the guide expressed it, which means, in English, that
they were murdered, here at Cologne. If you doubt the story, behold the
skulls! We turned suddenly upon the guide.
"Do _you_ believe this?"
"I mus; sinz I tells it to you," was his enigmatical reply, dropping his
eyes.
The scenery along the Rhine from Cologne, for twenty miles, is
uninteresting; just now, too, the weather was uncomfortably hot, and we
were glad to leave the steamer for a few hours at Bonn. Upon the balcony
of a hotel, looking out upon the river, we found a score of young men in
bright-colored caps--students from the university here. When dinner was
announced, they crowded in and filled the table, at which the ladies of
our party were the only ones present. Such a noisy, loud-talking set as
they were! When each one had dined, he coolly leaned back in his chair,
and lighted his pipe! Before we had finished our almonds and raisins the
room was quite beclouded. Then they adjourned with pipe and wine-glass
to the balcony again, where we left them when we went out to see the
town.
The university was formerly a palace, the guide-book had told us; but
all our childish conceptions of palaces had been rudely destroyed before
now, so that we were not surprised to find it without any especial
beauty of architecture--only a pile of brown stone, three quarters of a
mile long. I think we had left all the students drinking wine upon the
balcony, for we saw none here,--though we went through the library,
museum, and various halls,--except one party outside, who stared
unblushingly at the girls remaining in the carriage.
Somewhere in the town we found a lovely old minster, through the aisles
of which we wandered for a while, happy in having no guide and knowing
nothing whatever about it. Outside, in a little park, was a statue of
Beethoven, and in a quiet street near the water the musical girls of our
party found the house where he was born. In the cool of the day we took
another steamer, and went on towards the beckoning hills, at nightfall
reaching Rolandseck. There was no town in sight, only a pier and three
quiet hotels upon the bank, with a narrow road between their gardens and
the water. We chose the one farthest away, and were rowed down to it,
dabbling our hands in the water, and saying over and over again, "It is
the _Rhine_!"
But the hotel was full; so we filled our arms with luggage, and walked
back, up the dusty road to the second. A complacent waiter stood in the
doorway, with nothing of that hungry, eager air about him which betokens
an empty house; cool, comfortable-looking tourists, in enviable, fresh
toilets, stared at us from the windows; a pretty German girl upon the
balcony overhead was sketching the river and the Seven Mountains just
below, uttering little womanly exclamations at times, ending in "_ach_"
and "_ich_." After some delay, four single rooms were offered us; our
party numbered twelve; we left a portion of our company here; the others
went on--to the pier where we had landed, in fact, and with all meekness
and humility sued for accommodations of the little hotel here, which we
had at first looked upon with disdain. Fortunately, we were not refused.
When we came down the next morning, the sole occupant of the piazza
opening upon the garden--where our breakfast was spread--was a stout,
red-faced gentleman of general sleek appearance, who smiled a courteous
"good morning." He proved to be a Dutchman from Rotterdam, who had in
charge a couple of Malay youths sent to Holland to be
educated--bright-faced boys, with straight, blue-black hair, olive
complexions, and eyes like velvet. They were below us, walking in the
garden now.
"We have but just come from Holland," we said, after some conversation;
and, with a desire to be sociable, added that it was a very charming,
garden-like _little_ (!) country. (O dreadful American spirit!)
He smiled, showing his gums above his short teeth, and with a kind of
enraged humility replied,--
"It is nothing."
"It is indeed wonderful," we went on, trying to improve upon our former
attempt, and quoting a sentiment from the guide-book, "how your people
have rescued the land from the clutch of the sea!"
But his only reply was the same smile, and the "Yes?" so fatal to
sentiment.
"We visited your queen's 'House in the Wood,'" we ventured, presently.
"Is it true that the domestic relations of the royal family are so
unhappy?"
"O, the king and the queen are most happy," he replied. "You may always
be sure that when _he_ is in town _she_ will be in the country."
This was a phase of domestic bliss so new to us that we were fain to
consider it for a moment. Various other attempts we made at gaining
information, with equally questionable success. Our Dutch acquaintance,
though disposed to conversation, avoided the topic of his own country.
Still he sought our society persistently, asking at dinner that his
plate might be laid at the same table. Our vanity was considerably
flattered, until he chanced to remark that he embraced every opportunity
of conversing with English and American travellers, _it did so improve
his English_. From that time we found him tiresome. Think of being used
as an exercise-book!
It is here at Rolandseck that the romance of the Rhine, as well as its
world-renowned scenery, commences. Across the river is the
Drachenfels--the crag upon which the remains of a castle may still be
seen, where, "in the most ancient time," dwelt Hildegund, a maiden
beautiful as those of all stories, and beloved by Roland, a nephew of
Charlemagne. When he went away to the wars, she waited and watched at
home--as other maidens have done; but alas! instead of her lover, came
after a time only the news of his death. Then Hildegund laid aside her
gay attire and happy heart, with her hopes, and leaving her father's
castle, came down to bury her young life in the nunnery upon the island
at its foot. But the rumor was false; and in time Roland returned, only
to find himself too late, for Hildegund was bound by vows which could
not be broken. Then, upon the rock called now Rolandseck, the unhappy
lover built a castle opposite the Drachenfels and overlooking the
Island of Nonnenworth. Here he could watch the nuns as they walked in
the convent garden, and perhaps among them distinguish the form of
Hildegund.
On our way down from the arch, which, with a few crumbling stones is all
that remains now of Roland's castle, we passed through one of the
vineyards for which the banks of this river are so noted. Do you imagine
them to be picturesque? They are almost ugly. The vines are planted in
regular order and pruned closely. They are not suffered to grow above
three feet in height, and each one is fastened to a stout stake until
the wood itself becomes self-supporting.
We spent a quiet Sabbath at Rolandseck. There was no church, no church
service at either of the hotels. We rested and wrote letters, sitting in
the grape arbors of the garden; only a low hedge and narrow, grass-grown
road between us and the river. Down below, the rocks and the island shut
out the world; across, the hills rose to the sky, their slopes covered
with yellow grain, or dotted with red-roofed farm-houses, while tiny
villages had curled up and gone to sleep at their feet. It was
impossible to write. The breeze that rippled the yellow water blew away
our paper and our thoughts; and when the steamer, puffing, and evidently
breathless from stemming the current, touched at the little pier, we
left everything and ran out to see the passengers disembark. A band
played at the railroad station just above our hotel, and the park
attached to it swarmed with excursionists during the afternoon. At dusk,
when they had all gone, we wandered up the magnificent road which
follows the course of the river; built originally by the Romans, and
said to extend for a long distance--five hundred miles or more--into
Germany, returning with our hands full of wild flowers. When we went on
board the steamer, Monday morning, we were closely followed by our Dutch
friend and his Malays. They strolled off by themselves, as they seemed
always to do; he joined our group under the awning spread over the deck.
An English tourist seized upon him immediately, and when he had
disclosed his nationality, proceeded with a glance towards us, to quiz
him upon Dutch ways.
"Now, really," said the tourist, tilting back against the rail in his
camp chair, "how dreadful it must be to live in a country where there
are no mountains! nothing but a stretch of flat land, you know. I fancy
it would be unendurable."
"Yes?" was the Dutchman's sole response.
"You still keep up your peculiar customs, I observe from Murray," the
Englishman went on, loftily. "Your women carry the same old foot-stoves
to church, I fancy. They hang up, you know, in every house."
"Ah!" and the Dutchman only smiled that same incomprehensible smile that
had so puzzled us.
"And you smoke constantly," continued the inquisitor, growing dogmatic;
"a pipe is seldom out of your mouths. Really, you are a nation of
perpetual smokers."
"Yes," assented the Dutchman; "but then--" and here his eyes, and indeed
his whole round, rosy face twinkled with irresistible humor, "_you know
we have no mountains_."
A shout went up from the listeners, and our English acquaintance became
at once intensely interested in the scenery.
[Illustration: "At the word of command they struck the most
extraordinary attitudes." Page 157.]
The sail of half an hour to Coblentz was a continual delight. The rocky
mountains rose abruptly from the water, terraced to their peaks with
vineyards, or stood back to give place to modest towns and villages that
dipped their skirts in the stream. At their wharves we touched for a
moment, to make an exchange of passengers or baggage. Often from the
lesser villages a boat shot out, the oars held by a brown-armed maiden,
who boarded us to take, perhaps, a single box or bale, or, it might be,
some bearded tourist with sketch-book under his arm. The passengers
walked the deck, or gathered in groups to eat ices and drink the wines
made from the grapes grown in these vineyards, with the pictured maps of
the river spread out upon their laps, and the ubiquitous Murray in their
hands.
As we neared Coblentz the villages increased as the hills vanished. Each
had its point of interest, or monkish legend--the palace of a duke, a
bit of crumbling Roman wall rising from the water--something to invest
it with a charm. One--Neuwied--is noted for holding harmoniously within
its limits, Jews, Moravians, Anabaptists, and Catholics. The Millennium
will doubtless begin at Neuwied.
At Coblentz we remained a day, in order to visit the fortress of
Ehrenbreitstein. From our windows at the hotel we could look directly
across to this grim giant of rock, as well as down upon the bridge of
boats which crosses the Rhine here. It was endless amusement to watch
the approach of the steamers, when, as if impelled by invisible boatmen,
a part of the bridge would swing slowly round to make an opening,
while the crowd of soldiers, market-women, and towns-people, waiting
impatiently, furnished a constant and interesting study.
An hour or two after noon we too crossed the bridge in an open carriage,
nearly overcome by the stifling heat, and after passing through the
village of Ehrenbreitstein, ascended the winding road--a steep ascent,
leading under great arches of solid masonry, through massive gateways,
and shut in by the rock which forms the fortress. At various points,
guards of Prussian soldiers, as immovable as the stone under their feet,
were stationed. Suddenly in the gloomy silence, as we toiled slowly up,
echoed a sharp tramp, tramp, and a line of soldiers filed by in grim
silence, each one with a couple of loaves of bread slung by a cord over
his shoulder. In a moment another line followed with a quantity of iron
bedsteads, each borne solemnly upon the shoulders of four men. The
guards accompanying them were armed, and wore queer, shining helmets.
Still another company came swinging down to meet us, with fixed,
imperturbable countenances, each bearing a towel in one hand, with
military precision. They were on their way to the bathing-house upon the
bridge.
Scattered about upon the broad esplanade at the summit, or rather
arranged in lines upon the breezy, grass-grown space, were squads of
recruits being drilled. At the word of command they struck the most
extraordinary attitudes. Taking a tremendous stride, they endeavored to
poise themselves on one foot, while they threw the other leg straight
out behind into the air. Being of all sizes, forms, and degrees of
grace in movement, the effect, to say the least, was surprising;
especially as the most intense silence and seriousness prevailed. A
second stride and fling followed, then a third, when a pert young
officer, of the bantam species, seized a gun, and strutting to the
front, proceeded to illustrate the idea more perfectly. At this point
our gravity gave way.
A young sergeant, with a stupid but good-natured face, attached himself
to us in the capacity of guide. He could speak nothing but German, of
which not one of us understood a word. We followed him from point to
point, politely attending to all his elaborate explanations, and were
surprised to find how many ideas we had finally gained by means of the
patient and painful pantomimic accompaniment to his words.
The view from the summit is wonderfully extensive. All the kingdoms of
the earth and the glory of them seemed spread out at our feet; and our
fat little guide grew fairly red in the face in his efforts to make us
comprehend the names of the various points of interest.
When we returned to the carriage the animated jumping-Jacks were still
engaged in their remarkable evolutions; and as we came down we had a
last glimpse of our Dutch friend and his Malays, who were making the
ascent on foot.
The next day, though passed upon the beautiful river, was a day of
torment. The stream narrowed; the frowning rocks closed in upon us,
shutting out every breath of air; the sun beat down upon the water and
the low awning over our heads with fiery fury; in a moment of idiocy we
answered the call to _table d'hote_, which was served upon deck with a
refinement of imbecility just as the climax of the striking scenery
approached. For one mortal hour we were wedged in at that table, peering
between heads and under the awning which cut off every peak, making
frantic attempts to turn in our places, as parties across the table
exclaimed over the scenery behind us, and consoling ourselves with
reading up the legends in the guide-book held open by the rim of our
soup-plates,--of the Seven Sisters, for instance, who were turned into
seven stones which stand in the stream to this day, because they refused
to smile upon their lovers (fortunately for navigation, maidens in these
days are less obdurate); of the bishop who shut his starving peasants
into his barn and set fire to it, though his granaries were full, and
who, in poetic justice, was afterwards devoured by rats; of the Lurlei
siren, who lured men to destruction, and became historical from the
individuality of the case; of various maidens bereft of lovers by cruel
fathers, and of various lovers bereft of maidens by cruel fate, &c.,
while storied ruins crowned the crags on every hand, always half hidden
under a weight of ivy, and often indistinguishable from the rock on
which they seemed to have grown.
At Bingen, which is not especially "fair" from the river, the precipices
drop away, the stream spreads out in nearly twice its former width, and
is dotted with islands. At Mayence you may leave the steamer; the
beauties of the Rhine are passed.
From Mayence we made an excursion to Wiesbaden; then on to
Frankfort-on-the-Maine, to rest only a few hours, _doing_ the city
hastily and imperfectly; and finally reached Heidelberg at night, in
time for _table d'hote_. A talkative young Irishman sat beside us at the
table, who spoke five or six languages "with different degrees of
badness," he informed us; had travelled half the world over, but held in
reserve the pleasure of visiting America.
"I have a friend there," he added, "though he is in _South_ America."
"Ah?"
"Yes; at _Mobile_," he replied. "He held some office under government
for a number of years, but during your recent war--for some reason which
I do not understand--he seems to have lost it."
It did not seem so inexplicable to us.
Our conception of Heidelberg had been most imperfect. We knew simply
that it held a university and a ruin. The former did not especially
attract us, and we were sated with ruins. So, when we took possession of
our lovely room,--a charming _salon_, converted temporarily into a
bedroom,--it was with a kind of listless indifference that we stepped
out upon the balcony before the window. And, behold! down below, an old,
paved square, walled in by delightfully dingy old houses; a stone
fountain; a string of waiting landaus (for Landau itself is near by),
with scarlet linings to their tops--giving a bit of color to the
picture; a party of German students crossing the square, wearing the
caps of different colors to betoken different societies or clubs, and
almost every one with a scarred cheek or suggestive patch upon his nose;
and, lastly, on the right hand, and so precipitous as almost to overhang
the square, a hill crowned with the castle, grand, though in ruins,
which nature vainly tries to conceal. There are ruins, and ruins.
Except the Alhambra, in Spain, none in the world equal these.
What this castle must have been in the days of its glory, when it was
the residence of a court, we could only faintly imagine. It is of red
sandstone, and was a succession of palaces, built to enclose a square,
or great court-yard, each of entirely different architecture and design,
the _facade_ of one being covered with statues, another having pointed
gables, &c.; all having been erected at periods fifty or a hundred years
remote from each other. At each corner were watch-towers to apprise of
coming foes. You may still ascend the winding stairs of one, though the
steps have been hollowed into bowls by dripping rain and mounting feet.
Between these towers, upon one side, and on the verge of the hill, still
remains the grand stone terrace,--where a hundred couples might
promenade in solitude on moonlight evenings,--with summer-houses at each
end; and beautiful gardens are still connected with the ruins. For all
these palaces are in ruins. A few habitable rooms only remain among them
all. Several sieges, and partial demolition at times, the castle
suffered, and at last, a hundred years ago, lightning completed the
work, since which time no efforts at restoration have been made.
The whole is overgrown with ivy, and embowered in shrubbery. Great trees
spread their branches in the midst of the walls that still remain
standing, and crumbling earth and drifting dust have filled many parts,
even up to the broken window ledges of the second story. Across the
broad stone steps leading to one of these palaces, tangled vines
disputed right of way, and a neglected cherry-tree had scattered with
wanton hand its over-ripe fruitage. Thrust through a casement was an ivy
that might have vied with many of the trees around in the size of its
trunk, and no artistic hand could have trailed its creepers with the
grace Nature alone had displayed.
There was a grand banqueting-hall, with the blue heavens for a ceiling
overhead. There was a drawing-room, the floor long since crumbled away,
and only the broken walls remaining. Standing upon the loose earth, you
may see the blackened fireplace far above your head, before which fair
faces grew rosy centuries ago, and where white hands were outspread that
have been dust and mould for ages. There was-- But words cannot describe
it, though I should speak of the winding ways like a labyrinth beneath
it all; of the queer paved court-yard, from whence the knights sallied
out in the olden time; of the great tower, split in twain by an
explosion during the last siege; of the wine-cellars and the "Great
Tun," upon which the servants of the castle danced when the vintage was
gathered. In all attempts at word-painting there remains something that
defies description, that will not be portrayed by language. And, alas!
in that the charm lies.
We turned away from it with regret. One might linger here for days; but
we had little time for dreaming.
The road from Heidelberg to Baden-Baden led through a charming country:
indeed, we ceased to exclaim after a time over the cultivation of the
land. So far as we saw it, the whole of Europe was a market-garden,
with prize meadows interspersed. Not a foot of neglected or
carelessly-tilled ground did we see anywhere.
We chanced to spend the Sabbath in this most un-Sabbath-like city of
Baden-Baden. But so far as we knew to the contrary, it might have been a
Puritan village. There was a little English chapel out in the fields
beyond the city, where morning service was held, and our windows,
overlooking a quiet square, told nothing of the gayeties of the town. It
is an interesting old city in itself, built upon a side hill, full of
unexpected stone steps leading from one street to another, and by and
crooked ways, that were my especial delight. It being just now "the
season," the town was full of visitors. The hot springs are of course
the nominal attraction; the shops, parks, and new parts of the city,
fine; but, after all, the interest centres at the Kursaal, or
Conversation-haus. It is a great white structure, with a colonnade where
it fronts an open square, and contains reading-rooms, _cafes_, a grand
ball-room, and the gambling _salons_. Government has at length
interfered, and these last, hired by companies paying a certain sum for
the privilege of beguiling and beggaring visitors, were to be closed now
in two years, I think, or less. In front of the Kursaal a band plays
every afternoon; the colonnade and square are thronged with people
promenading or occupying the chairs placed there, eating ices, drinking
wine, and enjoying the fine music, but all perfectly quiet in manner and
plain of dress. No one was gaudily or even strikingly attired. The
Hanoverian women were the most marked for their queer head-dresses,
consisting of an enormous bow and ends of wide, black ribbon perched
upon their crowns, and giving their heads a peculiar, bat-like
appearance. And in this connection I might say that national
peculiarities in dress are seldom met with in the ordinary course of
continental travel. They still exist to some extent among the lower
classes, and are often assumed and perpetuated to attract the attention
of travellers; but ordinarily you will find people whom you meet
anywhere and everywhere to be costumed much alike. Paris fashions, with
modifications (and in America with _intensifications_), have prevailed
universally, until there are few outward dissimilarities to be observed
among the people of different nationalities. Nothing strikes the
attention of the traveller more than this universal homogeneousness; and
not in dress alone. In Bruges, under the shadow of the belfry tower,
little girls trot off to school in water-proofs, just as they do at home
with us; and at the entrance to Stirling Castle, we passed a sturdy
little boy with his hands in his pockets, whistling, "Not for Jo,"
exactly like other sturdy little boys we know at home.
But to return to Baden-Baden.
We almost fancied a sulphurous odor hung about the gambling _salons_.
Not a footfall echoed upon the softly-carpeted floors as we entered. The
most breathless silence hung over everything. In the centre, a crowd,
three in depth at least, surrounded and hid the table covered with green
cloth, before which sat the _croupier_, with a kind of little rake in
his hand. In our eyes he was the incarnation of evil, though to
unprejudiced vision he would appear simply a well-dressed--not
flashily-arrayed--gentleman, of a rather intellectual countenance, who
might have passed upon the street as a lawyer in good practice, or
possibly a doctor somewhat overworked.
One after another of the bystanders covered the figures stamped upon the
table with gold or silver. The ball in the centre, spinning in its
circle, fell into a pocket with a "click." The _croupier_ called the
winning number I think (though confessing that the game is a hidden
mystery). That quick, sharp utterance was the only sound breaking the
silence. At the same time, with wonderful dexterity, he raked the money
into a pile, and pushed it towards the winner, or, more frequently,
added it to the pile before himself.
I looked in vain for any exhibition of excitement or anxiety among the
players sitting or standing around the table. All were serious, silent;
some few absorbed. Both sexes were equally represented, and old as well
as young. Beside us was standing a woman with a worn, though still fine
face, unobtrusive in dress and manner; a traveller and spectator, I
judged, like ourselves. It was something of a surprise, not to say a
shock, to see her suddenly stretch out her hand, and lay down a handful
of gold pieces, selecting the numbers with an air that proved her to be
no novice. "Click," fell the ball. The _croupier_, with a sweep of the
rake, gathered up her Napoleons. The bank had won. Again she laid down
her gold, placing each piece with thoughtful deliberation. Again they
were swept away; and even the third time. She made no exclamation. She
did not so much as raise her eyes from the table as she prepared to make
a fourth attempt. There was no change in her face, except a certain
fixedness which came over it, and a faint tinge of color rising in her
cheeks.
We breathed more freely when we had gained the open air. I am sure there
was an odor of sulphur about the place.
The scenery around Baden-Baden is striking and wild. Gloomy valleys
abound, and dark forests cover many of the hills. We took a kind of
wagonet one morning, and climbed the mountain behind the city, passing
what is known as the "New Schloss," or castle, before leaving its
limits. It is anything but _new_, however, having been erected some four
or five hundred years. Its horrible dungeons, where all manner of
torments were inflicted, and tortures suffered by the unfortunate
wretches incarcerated here, attract scores of visitors. We went on, by
the zigzag road up the mountain, to the Old Schloss upon its summit.
This was the residence of the reigning family of Baden before the
erection of the New Schloss. Hardly anything remains of it now but the
walls of a square tower, from the battlements of which, by mounting to
an encircling gallery, you may obtain a view well worth the effort. As
far as the eye can see in one direction, extends the Black Forest--the
very name of which brings to mind elfish legends innumerable. But,
though our way led along its edge, so that we were shut in by the chill
and gloom of the evergreens which give it its name, we saw neither elves
nor gnomes, nor the traditional "wood-cutter, named Hans, who lived upon
the borders of the Black Forest," about whom we used to read when we
were children.
From Baden-Baden we took the railroad, following the course of the
Rhine to Strasbourg, spending only a night here, in order to visit the
beautiful cathedral; then on to Lucerne, waiting an hour or two to break
the long day's ride, at Basle. Here the mountains began to grow before
our eyes. We shot through tunnel after tunnel, cut in the solid rock,
and suddenly sweeping around a curve, the everlasting hills wrapped in
perpetual snows, greeted our astonished sight. We had reached the Mecca
of our hopes at last.