Leave Liége.--Banks of the Mense.--Spa.--Beautiful Promenades.--Robinson
Crusoe.--The Duke of Saxe-Cobourg.--Former magnificence of
Spa.--Excursions in the vicinity.--Departure from
Spa.--Aix-la-Chapelle.--The Cathedral.--The Postmaster's
Compliments.--Berghem.--German Enthusiasm.--Arrival at Cologne.
Dear ----,
On the fourth day of our quarantine, we left Liége, if not with clean
bills of health, with passport bearing proof about it that would enable
us to enter Prussia the next morning. The King and his brother having
laid all the horses in requisition, we did not get away before two; but
once on the road, our postilions drove like men who had reaped a double
harvest.
The route lay for some distance along the banks of the Meuse, and the
whole region was one of exquisite landscape beauties. An intensely dark
verdure--a road that meandered through the valley, occasionally shifting
from bank to bank--hill-sides covered with fruit-trees and fragrant with
flowers--country-houses--hamlets--cottages--with every appearance of
abundance and comfort, and back-grounds of swelling land, that promised
equal beauty and equal affluence, were the principal features of the
scene. The day was as fine as possible, and, everything bearing a leaf
having just been refreshed with a recent shower, we glided through this
fairy region with something like enthusiasm with which we had formerly
journeyed in Switzerland and Italy.
The Meuse, however, was soon abandoned for a tributary, and, after
proceeding a few leagues, the character of the country gradually
changed, although it still continued peculiar and beautiful. The
intensity of the verdure disappeared in a pale, but still a decided
green--the forest thickened--the habitations no longer crowded the
way-side, and we appeared to be entering a district, that was altogether
less populous and affluent than the one we had left, but which was
always neat, picturesque, and having an air of comfort. We were
gradually, but almost imperceptibly ascending.
This lasted for four hours, when, reaching a country-house, the road
turned suddenly at a right angle, and ran for near a mile through an
avenue of trees, bounded by open meadows. At the termination of this
avenue we dashed into the streets of a small, well-built, neat, and
compact village, that contained about one hundred and fifty dwellings,
besides three or four edifices of rather more than usual pretensions.
This was the celebrated Spa, a watering-place whose reputation was once
co-extensive with civilization.
We drove to an inn, where we dined, but finding it crowded and
uncomfortable. I went out and hired a furnished house by the day,
putting our own servants, with an assistant, in possession of the
kitchen. Next morning, perceiving that I had been too hasty, and that
our lodgings were too confined, I discharged them and took a better. We
got a dining-room, two drawing-rooms, several bed-rooms, with offices,
etc., all neat and well-furnished, for a Napoleon a day. I mention these
things as they serve to show you the facilities a traveller enjoys in
this part of the world. Nearly every house in Spa is to be had in this
manner, fitted for the reception of guests, the proprietor occupying a
small building adjoining, and usually keeping a shop, where wine and
groceries may be had. Servants can be engaged at any moment, and one is
thus enabled to set up his own _ménage_ at an hour's notice. This mode
is more economical for a large family, than living at an hotel, vastly
more comfortable, and more respectable. Dinners can be had from the
taverns, if desired. François being something of a cook, with the aid
of the Spa assistant, we lived entirely within ourselves. You will
remember that in hiring the house by the day, I reserved the right to
quit it at any moment.
Spa, like most other places that possess chalybeate waters, stands in
the centre of a country that can boast but little of its fertility.
Still, time and cultivation have left it the character of pale verdure
of which I have just spoken, and which serves for a time to please by
its novelty. The hue looked neither withered nor sickly, but it was
rather that of young grasses. It was a ghostly green. The eye wanders
over a considerable extent of naked fields, when one is on the steep
wooded hills, under whose very brows the village is built, and I
scarcely can recall a spot where a stronger impression of interminable
vastness is left, than I felt while gazing at the illimitable swells of
land that stretch away towards France. The country is said to be in the
mountains of the Ardennes, and once there was the forest through which
the "Boar of Ardennes" was wont to roam; but of forest there is now
none; and if there be a mountain, Spa must stand on its boundless
summit. High and broken hills do certainly appear, but, as a whole, it
is merely an upland region.
The glory of Spa has departed! Time was when the idle, the gay and the
dissolute crowded to this retired village to intrigue and play, under
the pretence of drinking the waters; when its halls were thronged with
princes and nobles, and even monarchs frequented its fêtes and partook
of its festivities. The industrious inhabitants even now spare no pains
to render the abode pleasant, but the capricious taste of the age lures
the traveller to other springs, where still pleasanter haunts invite
their presence. Germany abounds with watering-places, which are usually
rendered agreeable by a judicious disposition of walks, and by other
similar temptations. In nothing are the money-grasping and shiftless
habits of America rendered more apparent, than in the inferiority of her
places of public resort. In all these particulars nature has done a
good deal for some of them, but nowhere has man done anything worth
naming.
A trifling expenditure has rendered the rude hill which, covered chiefly
with evergreens, overlooks Spa, a succession of beautiful promenades.
Serpentine walks are led through its thickets, agreeable surprises are
prepared for the stranger, and all the better points of view are
ornamented by seats and summer-houses. One of these places was covered
by a permanent protection against the weather that had a name which
amused us, though it was appropriate enough, so far as the shape went.
It was called a "mushroom," it being, in fact, a sort of wooden
umbrella, not unlike those which the French market-women spread over
their heads in the streets of Paris, and which, more sentimental and
imaginative, they term a "_Robinson_" in honour of Robinson Crusoe.[22]
This mushroom was the scene of a remarkable occurrence, that it will
scarcely do to relate, but which, taking all together, furnishes a
ludicrous sample of national manners, to say nothing of miracles.
[Footnote 22: Pronounced Ro-ban-_sown_. The writer once went to return
the call of Mr. Robinson, at Paris. The porter denied that such a person
lived in the hotel. "But here is his card; Mr. Robinson, N----, Rue
----." "Bah," looking at the card, "ceci est Monsieur Ro-ban-_sown_;
c'est autre chose. Sans doute, Monsieur a entendu parler du célèbre
Ro-ban-_sown?_"]
The waters and the air together proved to be so much a tonic, that we
determined to pass a week at Spa, A----, who was so weak on leaving
Paris, as scarcely to be able to enter the carriage, gaining strength in
a way to delight us all. The cholera and the quarantine together induce
a good many people to come this way, and though few remain as long as
ourselves, the constant arrivals serve to keep attention alive. Among
others, the Duke of Saxe-Cobourg passed a night here, on his way home.
He appeared in the public room, for a few minutes; but so few were
assembled, that he retired, it was said, disappointed. There is still
some playing in public, and occasionally the inhabitants of Verviers,
an affluent manufacturing town, near the Prussian frontier, come over in
sufficient numbers to make a tolerably brilliant evening. These meetings
take place in the Redoute, a building of moderate dimensions, erected in
the heart of the place according to a very general German custom;
Wauxhall, the ancient scene of revelry, standing aloof in the fields,
deserted and desolate, as does a rival edifice of more recent existence.
The dimensions and style of these structures give one an idea of the
former gaiety and magnificence of Spa, though the only use that either
is now put to, is to furnish a room for a protestant clergyman to preach
in, Sundays.
As health, after all, is the greatest boon of life, we loitered at Spa a
fortnight, endeavouring to while away the time in the best way we could.
Short as was our stay, and transient as were the visits, we remained
long enough to see that it was an epitome of life. Some intrigued, some
played, and some passed the time at prayer. I witnessed trouble in one
_ménage_, saw a parson drunk, and heard much pious discourse from a
captain in the navy!
We got little Ardennes horses, which were constantly parading the
streets, led by countrymen in _blouses_, to tempt us to mount, and took
short excursions in the vicinity. Sometimes we made what is called the
tour of the springs; of which there are several, each differing from the
others in its medicinal properties, and only one of which is in the
village itself, the rest being a mile or more distant. At other times,
we lounged in the shops, admiring and purchasing the beautiful boxes and
ornaments that are known as Spa work, and which are merely the wood of
the hills, coloured by being deposited for a time in the spring, and
then painted and varnished highly. Similar work is made in other places,
but nowhere else as beautifully as here.
At length _ennui_ got the better of the good air and the invigorating
water, and I sent for my passport and the horses. François, by this
time, was tired of cooking, and he carried the orders for both right
joyfully, while my _bourgeois_ received his Napoleons with many handsome
expressions of regret, that I dare say were truer than common. In the
mean time we hurried about with our cards of P.P.C.; bidding adieu to
some, without the slightest expectation of ever meeting them again, and
promising others to renew the acquaintance on the Rhine, or among the
Alps, as events might decide. At half-past eleven all was ready, and
shaking hands with two countrymen who came to see us off, we took our
places, and dashed away from our _ménage_ of a fortnight's duration, as
unceremoniously as we had stepped into it.
The dog-star raged with all its fury, as we drove through the close and
pent-up valleys that lie between Spa and Verviers. At the latter place
we began to ascend, until finally we reached a broad and naked height,
that overlooked a wide reach of country towards the east. This was the
region that lies around the ancient capital of Charlemagne, and is now a
part of what M. de Pradt has described "as a façade thrown before
Europe," or the modern and disjointed kingdom of Prussia. We reached the
frontier on the height of land, where, everything proving to be _en
règle_, we met with no obstruction or delay.
While crossing the swell of land just mentioned, the wind changed with a
suddenness that we are apt to think American, but which occurs more
frequently in this hemisphere, or rather in this part of it, than in our
own. The peculiarity of the American climate is its exaggeration rather
than its fickleness; its passages from extreme heat to extreme cold,
more than the frequency of its lesser transitions. One never thinks of
an umbrella in America, with a cloudless sky; whereas, during the spring
months in particular, there is no security against rain an hour at a
time, near the western coast of Europe, more especially north of the Bay
of Biscay. On the present occasion, we passed in a few minutes from the
oven to the ice-house, and were travelling with cloaks about us, and
closed windows, long before we reached Aix-la-Chapelle, at which ancient
town we arrived about six. Unlike Spa, where we had the choice among a
hundred furnished houses, Aix was so crowded that we got narrow
lodgings, with great difficulty, in a second-rate hotel.
As a matter of course, although it was going over old ground with most
of us, we could do no less than look at the sights. The environs of Aix,
though exceedingly pretty, and well ornamented by country-houses, are
less beautiful than those of Liege. Although Charlemagne has been buried
near a thousand years, and there is no longer an Emperor of Germany, or
a King of the Romans, Aix-la-Chapelle is still a town of more than
30,000 inhabitants. It is a crowded and not a particularly neat place,
though material improvements are making, and we have been more pleased
with it this year than we were last. The town-house is a very ancient
structure, one of its towers being supposed to have been built by the
Romans, and it is celebrated as having been the place of meeting of two
European congresses; that of 1748, and that of our own times. It has a
gallery of portraits of the different ambassadors, a big-wigged if a not
big-witted set.
The cathedral, though imperfect, is a noble and a curious monument: the
choir is modern, that is to say, of Gothic workmanship, and only five
hundred years old, while the main body is an antique rotunda, that dates
more than twice as far back, or as remotely as the reign of Charlemagne
himself. There is a circular gallery in it, around which the thrones of
the Emperor and Electors were formerly placed, at the ceremonies of
coronations. Each of these thrones was flanked by small antique columns,
brought from Rome, but which during the reign of Napoleon, in the spirit
of monopoly and desecration[23] that marked the era, had been
transferred to Paris, where some of them are still seen standing in the
gallery of the Tuileries. A chair that was found in Charlemagne's tomb
stands in this gallery, and was long used as a throne for the Emperors.
[Footnote 23: Extract from the unpublished manuscript of these letters:
"You have lately been at Richmond Hill," said Mr. ----; "did you admire
the view, as much as is the fashion?" "To be frank with you, I did not.
The Park struck me as being an indifferent specimen of your parks; and
the view, though containing an exquisite bit in the fore-ground, I
think, as a whole, is both tame and confused." "You are not alone in
your opinion, though I think otherwise. Canova walked with me on the
terrace, without seeming to be conscious there was anything unusual to
be seen. He scarcely regarded the celebrated view a second time. Did you
know him?" "He was dead before I came to Europe." "Poor Canova!--I met
him in Paris, in 1815, in a ludicrous dilemma. It rained, and I was
crossing the Carrousel in a _fiacre_, when I saw Canova stealing along
near the walls, covered in a cloak, and apparently uncertain how to
proceed. _I drove_ near him, and offered him a seat. He was agitated,
and appeared like a man who had stolen goods about him. The amount of it
was, that they were distributing the pictures to their former owners,
and having an order to receive "la Madonna della Seggiola," he had laid
hands on the prize, and, in his eagerness to make sure of it, was
carrying it off, under his cloak. He was afraid of being discovered and
mobbed, and so I drove home with him to his hotel." I think Mr. ----
named this particular picture, though I have somewhere heard it was
never brought to Paris, having been sent to Sicily for security: it
might, therefore, have been another painting.]
The cathedral is said to be rich in relics, and, among other things, it
has some of the manna from the desert, and a bit of Aaron's rod! It has
a window or two, in a retired chapel, which have a few panes of
exquisitely painted glass that are much more precious than either.
At noon I sent my passport to the post-house for horses, and, in return,
I had a visit from the postmaster in compliment to the republic of
letters. We said a few flattering things to each other, much to the
amusement of A----, when we took our departure.
The country, after quitting the valley of Aix,[24] became flat and
monotonous, and it was in the midst of a vast level district that we
found the town of Juliers, the capital of the ancient duchy, buried
behind grassy ramparts, that were scarcely visible until we were
actually passing them. It is a tame and insignificant place, at
present. At Berghem, a post or two further, I had another visit from the
postmaster and his clerk, who made no scruple in asking me if I was the
man who wrote books! We talk a great deal of our national intelligence
in America, and certainly with truth, when we compare ourselves with
these people in many important particulars; but blocks are not colder,
or can have less real reverence for letters, arts, or indeed cultivation
of any kind, than the great bulk of the American people. There are a few
among us who pretend to work themselves up into enthusiasm as respects
the first, more especially if they can get a foreign name to idolize;
but it is apparent, at a glance, that it is not enthusiasm of the pure
water. For this, Germany is the land of sensations, whether music,
poetry, arms, or the more material arts be their object. As for myself,
I can boast of little in this way, beyond the homage of my two
postmasters, which perhaps was more than properly fell to my share; but
I shall never forget the feeling displayed by a young German, at
Dresden, whom chance threw in my way. We had lodgings in a house
directly opposite the one inhabited by Tieck, the celebrated novelist
and dramatist. Having no proper means of introduction to this gentleman,
and unwilling to obtrude myself anywhere, I never made his acquaintance,
but it was impossible not to know, in so small a town, where so great a
celebrity lived. Next door to us was a Swiss confectioner, with whom I
occasionally took an ice. One day a young man entered for a similar
purpose, and left the room with myself. At the door he inquired if I
could tell him in which of the neighbouring hotels M. Tieck resided, I
showed him the house and paused a moment to watch his manner, which was
entirely free from pretension, but which preserved an indescribable
expression of reverence. "Was it possible to get a glimpse of the person
of M. Tieck?" "I feared not; some one had told me that he was gone to a
watering-place." "Could I tell him which was the window of his room?"
This I was able to do, as he had been pointed out to me at it a few
days before. I left him gazing at the window, and it was near an hour
before this quiet exhibition of heartfelt homage ceased by the departure
of the young man. In my own case, I half suspect that my two postmasters
expected to see a man of less European countenance than the one I happen
to travel with.
[Footnote 24: _Aachen_, in German. In French it is pronounced
Ais-la-Chapelle.]
It was near sunset when we reached the margin of the upper terrace,
where we began to descend to the level of the borders of the Rhine. Here
we had a view of the towers of Cologne, and of the broad plain that
environs its walls. It was getting to be dark as we drove through the
winding entrance, among bastions and half-moons, and across bridges, up
to the gates of the place, which we reached just in season to be
admitted without the extra formalities.