Good-by to Paris, for we are on the road to Brussels, in a night express
train, swiftly passing through Douai and Valenciennes, harassed,
bothered, and pestered at Quievran, on the frontier, where our baggage
was critically inspected. Through Valenciennes, which is suggestive of
lace--so is Brussels--yes, we are getting into the lace country. But
don't imagine, my inexperienced traveller, that the names of these
cities are pronounced, or even spelled, in our country (as they ought to
be) as they are by the natives.
In Bruxelles we recognized Brussels easily enough; but who would ever
have understood Malines to be what we denominate Mechlin, or have known
when he reached Aix la Chapelle by the German conductor's bellowing out,
"Aachen"? And I could well excuse an American friend, some days after,
when we reached Antwerp, who, on being told he was at Anvers, said,
"Confound your Anvers. This must be the wrong train. I started for
Antwerp."
Why should not the names of foreign cities be spelled and pronounced, in
English, as near like their real designation as possible? There appears
to be no rule. Some are, some are not. Cöln is not a great change from
Cologne, but who would recognize München for Munich, or Wien for
Vienna?
We rattled through the streets of Brussels at early morning, and,
passing the great market square, saw a curious sight in the side streets
contiguous, in the numerous dog-teams that the country people bring
their produce to market with. Old dog Tray is pretty thoroughly utilized
here; for while the market square was a Babel of voices, from
bare-headed and quaint-headdressed women, and curious jacketed and
breeched peasants, arranging their greens, fruit, and vegetables, and
clamoring with early purchasers, their teams, which filled the side
streets, were taking a rest after their early journey from the country.
There were stout mastiffs in little carts, harnessed complete, like
horses, except blinders; some rough fellows, of the "big yellow-dog"
breed, tandem; poor little curs, two abreast; small dogs, big dogs,
smart dogs, and cur dogs, each attached to a miniature cart that would
hold from two pecks to three bushels, according to the strength of the
team; and they were standing, sitting, and lying in all the varieties of
dog attitude--certainly a most comical sight. Some time afterwards,
while travelling in the country, I met a fellow riding in one of these
little wagons, drawn by two large dogs at quite a tolerable trot (dog
trot), although they are generally used only to draw light burdens, to
save the peasants' shoulders the load.
From our windows at the Hotel de l'Europe we look out upon the Place
Royale, in which stands the handsome equestrian statue, in bronze, of
that stout crusader, Godfrey de Bouillon, who, with the banner of the
cross in one hand, and falchion aloft in the other, is, as he might have
rode at the siege of Jerusalem, or at the battle of Ascalon, a spirited
and martial figure, and familiar enough to us, from its reproduction in
little, for mantel clocks. We visited the celebrated Hotel de Ville, a
magnificent old Gothic edifice, all points and sculptures, and its
central tower shooting up three hundred and sixty-four feet in height.
In front of it are two finely executed statues of Counts Egmont and
Horn, the Duke of Alva's victims, who perished here. A short distance
from here is a little statue known as the Manikin, a curious fountain
which every one goes to see on account of the natural way it plays, and
which on some fête days sends forth red wine, which the common people
flock in crowds to bear away, with much merriment at the source of
supply.
Besides a museum of paintings in Brussels, which contained several fine
pictures by Rubens, we visited a gallery of somewhat remarkable and
original pictures at the residence of an artist (now deceased) named
Wiertz. The subjects chosen were singular, and so was the original
manner in which they were treated. One represented Napoleon in hell,
surrounded by tormenting demons, with flitting visions of the horrors of
war and carnage, and its victims upbraiding him; another, a huge picture
of a struggle of giants--giving the best idea of giants possible, it
seemed to me, outside of the children's story-books. Another picture was
so contrived that the spectator peeped through a half-open door, and was
startled at beholding what he supposed to be a woman with but a single
garment, gathered shrinkingly around her, and gazing at him from an
opposite door, which she appeared to have just shrunk behind to avoid
his intrusion--a most marvellous cheat. An apparently rough sketch of a
huge frog, viewed through an aperture, became the portrait of a French
general. The pictures of two beautiful girls opening a rude window, and
presenting a flower, were so arranged that, whatever position the
spectator took, they were still facing him, and holding out their floral
offerings. An aperture, like that of a cosmorama, invited you to look
through, when, lo! a group, clothed in arctic costume, and one more
grotesque than the rest arrests you; it is like a living face; the eyes
wink; it moves! You start back, and find that by some clever arrangement
of a looking-glass, you yourself have been supplying the face of the
figure.
A little table, standing in the way, bears upon it an easel, some
brushes, a red herring, and other incongruous things, which you suppose
some careless visitors to have left, till you discover it is another of
the artist's wonderful deceptions. I say wonderful, because his forte
seems to have been some of the most astonishing practical jokes with
brush and color that can possibly be imagined. Some would absolutely
cheat the spectator, although prepared for surprises, and excite as much
laughter as a well-told story; and others would have an opposite effect,
and make his very hair almost stand erect with terror. One of the latter
was that which represented a maniac mother, in a half-darkened room,
cutting up one of her children with a butcher knife, and putting the
remains into a pot boiling upon the fire. The spectator, who is held to
this dreadful scene by a sort of terrible fascination, discovers that
the wild woman thinks herself secure from observation, from the
appearance of the apartment, the windows and even key-hole of which she
has carefully covered, and that he himself is getting a view from an
unobserved crevice. Although the subject is anything but a pleasant one,
yet the rapid beating of the heart, the pallid countenance, and
involuntary shudder with which the spectator withdraws from the terrible
spectacle, is a tribute to the artist's marvellous skill.
Brussels is divided into two parts, the upper and lower city: the
latter is crowded, and inhabited principally by the poorer and
laboring classes, and contains many of the quaint old-fashioned
Dutch-looking buildings of three centuries ago; the upper part of the
city, the abode of the richer classes, contains fine, large, open
squares and streets, palace gardens, &c. In one of the latter we
attended a very fine instrumental concert, given by the orchestra of
the Grand Opera--admission ten cents! and we found that we were now
getting towards the country where good music was a drug, and we could
get our fill at a very reasonable price, with the most agreeable
surroundings.
The most interesting church in Brussels is the splendid Cathedral of St.
Gudule, founded in 1010, the principal wonders of which are its
magnificently-painted windows,--one an elaborate affair, representing
the last judgment, the other various miracles and saints,--and the
pulpit, which is a wondrous work of the carver's art. Upon it is a group
representing the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the garden of Eden; the
pulpit itself is upheld by the tree of knowledge, and high above it
stands the Virgin Mary, holding the infant Jesus, who is striking at the
serpent's head with the cross. The tracery of the foliage, the carving
of the figures, and ornamental work are beautifully chiselled, and very
effectively managed.
Having sent a trunk on before me to Brussels, I had an experience of
the apparently utter disregard of time among Belgian custom-house
officials; and, indeed, of that slow, methodical, won't-be-hurried,
handed-down-from-our-ancestors way of transacting business, that
drives an American almost to the verge of distraction.
My experience was as follows: First, application was made and
description given; next, I was sent to officer number two, who copied it
all into a big book, kept me ten minutes, and charged me eight cents;
then I was sent to another clerk, who made out a fresh paper, kept the
first, and consumed ten or fifteen minutes more; then I was sent back,
up stairs, to an official, for his signature--eight cents more--cheap
autographs; then to another, who commenced to interrogate me as to name,
where I was staying, my nationality, &c.; when, in the very midst of his
interrogations, the hour of twelve struck, and he pushed back the paper,
with "_Après déjeûner, monsieur_," shut his window-sash with a bang, and
the whole custom-house was closed for one hour, in the very middle of
the day, for the officials to go to lunch, or "_déjeûner à la
fourchette_."
Misery loves company. An irate Englishman, whose progress was as
suddenly checked as mine had been, paced up and down the corridor,
swearing, in good round terms, that a man should have to wait a good
hour for a change of linen, so that a parcel of cursed Dutchmen could
fill themselves with beer and sausage. But remedy there was none till
the lunch hour was passed, when the offices were reopened, and the
wheels of business once more began their slow revolutions, and our
luggage was, with many formalities, withdrawn from government custody.
"When you are on the continent don't quote Byron," said a friend at
parting, who had been 'over the ground;' "that is, if possible to
refrain;" and, indeed, as all young ladies and gentlemen at some period
of their lives have read the poet's magnificent romaunt of Childe
Harold, the qualification which closed the injunction was significant.
Can anybody that has any spark of imagination or romance in his
composition refrain, as scene after scene, which the poet's glorious
numbers have made familiar in his mind, presents itself in reality to
his sight? We visit Brussels chiefly to see the field of Waterloo; and
as we stand in the great square of Belgium's capital, we remember "the
sound of revelry by night," and wonder how the streets looked when "then
and there was hurrying to and fro," and we pictured to ourselves, as the
moon poured down her silver light as we stood there, and flashed her
beams upon the windows in the great Gothic structures, the sudden alarm
when "bright the lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men," and how
"the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;"
and it all came back to me how I had sing-songed through extracts from
Byron in my school readers when a boy, spouted the words of the Battle
of Waterloo at school exhibitions, and sometimes wondered if I should
ever visit that field where Bonaparte made his last grand struggle for
the empire. Yes, we should feel now the words of the poet as we
approached it--"Stop! for thy tread is on an empire's dust." And so I
stood musing, and repeating the poet's lines, _sotto voce_, when an
individual approached, and, touching his hat, interrupted my musings.
"Waterloo to-morrow, sir?"
"Sir?"
"Would you like to visit Waterloo to-morrow, sir? Coach leaves at nine
in the morning--English coach and six--spanking team--six horses."
We looked at this individual with some surprise, which he dissipated as
follows:--
"Beg pardon, sir--agent of the English coach company--always wait upon
strangers, sir."
We took outside tickets for the field of Waterloo on the English coach.
The next morning dawned brightly, and at the appointed time a splendid
English mail coach, with a spanking team of six grays,--just such a one
as we have seen in English pictures, with a driver handling the whip and
ribbons in the most approved style,--dashed into the Place Royale, and,
halting before a hotel at one end, the guard played "The Campbells are
Comin'" upon a bugle, with a gusto that brought all the new arrivals to
the windows; three or four ladies and gentlemen mounted to the
coach-roof; the driver cracked his whip, and whirled his team up to our
hotel, while the uniformed guard played "The Bowld Soger Boy" under the
very nose of old Godfrey de Bouillon; and we clambered up to the outside
seats, of which there were twelve, to the inspiring notes of the bugle,
which made the quiet old square echo with its martial strains. Away we
rolled, the bugle playing its merriest of strains; but when just clear
of the city, our gay performer descended, packed his instrument into a
green baize bag, deserted, and trudged back, leaving us only the music
of the rattling hoofs and wheels, and the more agreeable strains of
laughter of half a dozen lively English and American ladies.
The field of Waterloo is about twelve miles from Brussels; the ride, of
a pleasant day, behind a good team, a delightful one: we pass through
the wood of Soignies, over a broad, smooth road, in excellent order,
shaded by tall trees on either side--this was Byron's Ardennes.
"Ardennes waves above them her green leaves."
We soon reached the field, which has been so often described by
historians, novelists, and letter-writers, that we will spare the reader
the infliction.
We are met by guides who speak French, German, and English, who have
bullets, buttons, and other relics said to have been picked up on the
field, but which a waggish Englishman informed us were manufactured at a
factory near by to supply the demand. The guides, old and young, adapt
their sympathies to those of customers; thus, if they be English, it
is,--
"Here is where the brave Wellington stood; there is where _we_ beat back
the Old Guard."
Or, if they be French or Americans,--
"There is where the great Napoleon directed the battle. The Imperial
Guard beat all before them to this point," &c.
The field is an open, undulating plain, intersected by two or three
broad roads; monuments rise here and there, and conspicuous on the
field, marking the thickest of the fight rises the huge pyramidal
earth-mound with the Belgian Lion upon its summit.
We stroll from point to point noted in the terrible struggle. Here is
one that every one pauses at longest; it is a long, low ridge, where the
guards lay that rose at Wellington's command, and poured their terrible
tempest of lead into the bosoms of the Old Guard. We walk over the track
of that devoted band of brave men, who marched over it with their whole
front ranks melting before the terrific fire of the English artillery
like frost-work before the sun, grimly closing up and marching sternly
on, receiving the fire of a battery in their bosoms, and then marching
right on over gunners, guns, and all, like a prairie fire sweeping all
before it--Ney, the bravest of the brave, four horses shot under him,
his coat pierced with balls, on foot at their head, waving his sword on
high, and encouraging them on, till they reach this spot, where the last
terrible tempest beats them back, annihilated. Here, where so many went
down in death,--
"Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent,"--
now waved the tall yellow grain, and the red poppies that bloomed among
it reminded us of the crimson tide that must have reddened the turf when
it shook beneath the thunder of that terrible charge.
Let us pause at another noted spot; it is where the English squares
stood with such firmness that French artillery, lancers, and even the
cuirassiers, who threw themselves forward like an iron avalanche, failed
to break them.
We come to the chateau of Hougoumont, which sustained such a succession
of desperate attacks. The battle began with the struggle for its
possession, which only ended on the utter defeat of the French. The
grounds of Hougoumont are partially surrounded by brick walls, which
were loopholed for musketry. This place, at the time of the battle, was
a gentleman's country-seat, with farm, out-buildings, walled garden,
private chapel, &c., and the shattered ruins, which to this day remain,
are the most interesting relics of the battle; the wall still presents
its loopholes; it is battered as with a tempest of musket balls.
The French charged up to the very muzzles of the guns, and endeavored to
wrest them from the hands of those who pushed them forth.
Four companies of English held this place for seven hours against an
assaulting army, and bullets were exhausted in vain against its
wall-front, before which fifteen hundred men fell in less than an hour.
There are breaches in the wall, cannon-shot fractures in the barn and
gate; the little chapel is scarred with bullets, fire, and axes, and a
fragment of brick buildings looks like part of a battered fort. Victor
Hugo's "Les Misérables" gives a most vivid and truthful description of
this little portion of the battle-field, and of the desperate struggle
and frightful scenes enacted there, serving the visitor far better than
any of the guide-books.
Passing from here, we go out into the orchard--scene of another deadly
and dreadful contest. We are shown where various distinguished officers
fell; we walk over the spots that Napoleon and Wellington occupied
during the battle; we go to the summit of the great mound upon which
stands the Belgian Lion, and from it are pointed out the distant wood
from which Wellington saw the welcome and fresh columns of Blucher
emerge; we pluck a little flower in Hongoumont's garden, and a full and
nearly ripened blade of grain from the spot where the Imperial Guard
were hurled back by their English adversaries, pay our guide three
francs each, and once more are bowling along back to Brussels.
Near the field is a sort of museum of relics kept by a niece of Sergeant
Major Cotton, who was in the battle, which contains many interesting and
well-attested relics found upon the field years ago. There are rusty
swords, that flashed in the June sunset of that terrible day, bayonets,
uniform jackets and hats, buttons, cannon shot, and other field spoil,
and withal books and photographs, which latter articles the voluble old
lady in charge was anxious to dispose of.
Just off the field,--at the village of Waterloo, I think,--we halt at
the house in which Wellington wrote his despatch announcing the victory.
Here is preserved, under a glass case, the pencil with which he wrote
that document. The boot of the Marquis of Anglesea, who suffered
amputation of his leg here, is also preserved in like manner; and in the
garden is a little monument erected over his grace's limb, which is said
to be buried there.
Did we buy lace in Brussels? Yes.
And the great lace establishments there?
Well, there are few, if any, large lace shops for the sale of the
article. Those are all in Paris, which is the great market for it. Then,
it will be remembered that "Brussels lace" is not a very rare kind, and
also that lace is an article of merchandise that is not bulky, and
occupies but very little space. In many of the old cities on the
continent, shopkeepers do not believe in vast, splendid, and
elegantly-decorated stores, as we do in America, especially those who
have a reputation in specialties which causes purchasers to seek them
out.
Some of the most celebrated lace manufacturers in Brussels occupied
buildings looking, for all the world, like a good old-fashioned
Philadelphia mansion, with its broad steps and substantial front door,
the latter having a large silver plate with the owner's name inscribed
thereon. A good specimen of these was that of Julie Everaert and
sisters, on the Rue Royale, where, after ringing the front door bell, we
were ushered by the servant into a sort of half front parlor, half shop,
and two of the sisters, two stout, elderly Flemish ladies, in black silk
dresses and lace caps, appeared to serve us. So polite, so quiet,
well-dressed and lady-like, so like the mild-voiced, well-bred ladies of
the old school, that are now only occasionally met in America, at the
_soirée_ and in the drawing-room, and who seem always to be surrounded
by a sort of halo of old-time ceremony and politeness, and to command a
deference and courtesy by their very presence that we instinctively
acknowledge--so like, that we began to fear we had made some mistake,
until the elder and stouter of the two, after the usual salutations,
inquired in French if "madame and monsieur would do them the honor to
look at laces."
Madame and monsieur were agreeable, and chairs were accordingly placed
before a table, which was covered by a sort of black velvet comforter,
or stuffed table-cloth, and behind which stood a tall fire-proof safe,
which, being opened by the servant, displayed numerous drawers and
compartments like to that of a jeweller. The lace dealer commenced an
exhibition of the treasures of the iron casket, displaying them upon the
black velvet with the skill of an expert, her quiet little servant
removing such as were least favorable in our eyes, when the table became
crowded, and she went on, as each specimen was displayed, something as
follows:--
"_Vingt francs, monsieur_" (a neat little collar).
"_Cinquante francs, plus jolie_" (I expressed admiration audibly).
"_Cent francs, madame_," said the frau Julie, abandoning at once the
addressing of her conversation to an individual who could be struck with
the beauty of a fifty franc strip of lace.
"_Cent cinquante francs, madame, très recherché._"
"_Deux cent francs. Superbe, madame._"
"_Quatre cent francs. Magnifique._"
"Eighty dollars for that mess of spider's web!" exclaimed Monsieur, in
English, to his companion. "Eighty dollars! The price _is_ magnifique."
"He is varee sheep for sush _dentelles_," says the old lady, in a quiet
tone, much to monsieur's confusion at her understanding the English
tongue; and the exhibition went on.
How much we sacrificed at that black velvet altar I do not care to
mention; but, at any rate, we found on reaching America that the prices
paid, compared with those asked at home, _were_ "varee sheep for sush
_dentelles_."
Antwerp! We must make a brief pause at this old commercial city on the
Scheldt; and as we ride through its streets, we see the quaint, solid,
substantial buildings of olden times, their curious architecture giving
a sort of Dutch artistic air to the scene, and reminding one of old
paintings and theatrical scenery. One evidence of the commercial
importance of Antwerp is seen in its splendid docks; these comprise the
two docks built by Bonaparte when he made the port one of his naval
arsenals, which are splendid specimens of masonry, the walls being five
feet in thickness; then the Belgian government have recently completed
three new docks, which, in connection with the old ones, embrace an area
of over fifty acres of water. We visited several of the dock-yards here,
and were astonished at the vast heaps of merchandise they contained.
Still further improvements that are being made seem to completely refute
the assertion that all the commercial enterprise of Antwerp has
departed. Here, for instance, were two new docks in progress for timber
and petroleum exclusively, which enclose seventeen acres of water, and
here we saw literally enough of splendid timber for a navy. I was
actually staggered by the heaps of every kind of timber, from all parts
of the world, that was piled up here, while the American petroleum was
heaped up and stored in warehouses the size of a cathedral, suggesting
the idea of a tremendous illumination should fire by any means get at
it, which, however, is guarded against very strictly by dock-guards and
police.
Then there are three new and spacious dry docks, one of which is the
largest in Europe, being nearly five hundred feet long, and capable of
holding two ships at a time of one thousand tons register each. The
splendid facilities for ships of every description, and for the landing
and storage of merchandise, are such as cannot fail to excite admiration
from every American merchant, and make him sigh for the time when we may
have similar accommodations in the great seaports in this country. There
were huge warehouses, formed by two blocks _vis-à-vis_, with a glass
roof covering the intermediate space, and a double rail track running
through it, affording opportunity of loading, unloading, and sorting
merchandise in all weathers, while the depth of the "lazy old Scheldt,"
directly opposite the city, is sufficient for a ship drawing thirty-two
feet of water to ride safely at anchor.
The magnificent cathedral spire in Antwerp is familiar to almost
everybody who looks into the windows of the print shops; and we climbed
far up into it, to its great colony of bells, that make the very tower
reel with their chimes. Here, leaving the ladies, our motto was,
Excelsior; and we still went onward and upward, till, amid the wrought
stone that seems the lace-work of the spire, we appeared to be almost
swinging in the air, far above the earth, as in a gigantic net, and,
although safely enclosed, yet the apertures and open-work were so
frequent that our enthusiasm was not very expressive, however deeply it
might have been felt at the splendid view, though our grasp at the
balusters and stone-work was of the most tenacious character; and, in
truth, the climbing of a spire of about four hundred feet high is an
undertaking easier read about than practised.
Inside the cathedral we saw Rubens's fine pictures of the Elevation and
the Descent from the Cross, in which the figures are given with such
wonderful and faithful accuracy as to make the spectator sigh with pity
at the painful spectacle.
The interior of this splendid cathedral is grand and imposing; but I
have already, in these pages, employed so many adjectives in admiration
of these grand old buildings, that I fear repetition in the attempt to
give anything more than the dimensions which indicate its vast extent,
which are five hundred feet long and two hundred and fifty wide. In
front of this cathedral is an iron canopy, or specimen of iron
railing-work, as we should call it; but it is of _wrought_ iron, and by
the hammer and skilful hand of Quentin Matsys.
In the Church of St. Jacques, with its splendid interior, rich in
beautiful carved marble and balustrades, we stood at the tomb of Rubens,
who is buried here, and saw many more of his pictures among them his
Holy Family. The house where he died is in a street named after him, and
a statue of the artist graces the Place Verte.
Antwerp rejoices in good musical entertainments. The most prominent and
aristocratic of the musical societies is that known as the "Royal
Society of Harmony of Antwerp," who own a beautiful garden, or park, at
which their out-of-door concerts are given during the summer season.
None but members of the society are admitted to these entertainments,
except visiting friends from other cities, and then only by approval of
the committee of managers.
The garden is quite extensive, and is beautifully laid out with walks
beneath shady groves, rustic bridges over ponds and streams, gorgeous
plats, and parterres of flowers. In the centre of the grounds rises an
ornamental covered stand for the orchestra; and round about, beneath the
shade trees, sit such of the visitors who are not strolling about,
eating ices, drinking light wine or beer, and indulging in pipes and
cigars. A handsome pavilion affords accommodation in case of bad
weather, and the expenses are defrayed by assessments upon the members
of the society.
After seeing the London Zoölogical Garden, others seem very much like
it; and that in Antwerp is nearest the London one, in the excellence of
its arrangement and management, of any I have since visited. The
collection is quite large, and very interesting.
The cabs and hackney coaches in this old city are the most atrocious old
wrecks we have ever seen, the horses apparently on their last legs, and
the drivers a seedy-looking set of fellows, most of whom understand
neither English, French, nor German, only Flemish; so that when a
stranger calls a "vigilante," which is the title of these turnouts, it
is well to have the assistance of a native, else the attempted excursion
may end in an inextricable snarl of signs, phrases, and gesticulations,
"full of sound and fury, and signifying nothing" to either party.
I believe if an individual, who does not understand German or Flemish,
can make the journey from Antwerp to Dusseldorf alone, he may be
considered competent to travel all over Europe without a courier or
interpreter. The conductors or guards of the train appeared to
understand nothing but German and Flemish. The changes of cars were
numerous and puzzling, and our "_Change-t-on de voiture ici?_" and "_Ou
est le convoi pour Dusseldorf?_" were aired and exercised on a portion
of the route to little purpose. Nevertheless, we did manage to blunder
through safely and correctly, by dint of showing tickets, and being
directed by signs and motions, and pushed by good-natured, stupid (?)
officials from one train to another; for we changed cars at Aerschot,
then at Hasselt, then again at Maestricht, where we were compelled to
leave the train, and have all small parcels examined by the custom-house
officials; then at Aix la Chapelle, or Aachen, as the Dutchmen call it,
we had to submit to an examination of trunks, all passing in at one door
of a large room and out at another, in an entirely opposite direction,
and apparently directly away from the train we had just left, to
continue our journey. I never shall forget the jargon of Dutch, French,
and English, the confusion of wardrobes of different nationalities that
were rudely exposed by the officers, the anathematizing of obstinate
straps that would not come unbuckled, the turning out of pockets to
search for missing keys, and the hasty cramming back of the contents of
trunks,--for the train was a few minutes late,--that imprinted the
custom-house station of Aix la Chapelle like a disagreeable nightmare on
my memory.
At last we reached Ober Cassel, where we debarked, took seats in a
drosky, as they call cabs here, the driver of which hailed us in French,
which really sounded almost natural after the amount of guttural German
we had experienced.
Over the pontoon bridge that spans the Rhine, we rode towards
Dusseldorf, whose lighted windows were reflected upon the dark, flowing
stream; and we were soon within the hospitable and comfortable hotel,
denominated the Breidenbacher Hof, where the servants spoke French and
English, and we forgot the perplexities of the day in an excellent and
well-served supper.
Dusseldorf is one of those quiet, sleepy sort of towns where there is
little or no excitement beyond music in the Hofgarten, or the Prussian
soldiers who parade the streets; it is the quiet and pleasant home of
many accomplished artists, whose paintings and whose school of art are
familiar to many in America, and it is often visited by American
tourists for the purpose of purchasing pictures from the easels of its
artists; indeed, the guide-books dignify it with the title of the
"Cradle of Rhenish Art." Americans visiting Dusseldorf find an efficient
and able cicerone in Henry Lewis, Esq., the American consul, who, from
his long residence there, and being himself a Dusseldorf artist, and
withal a member of their associations, and having an intimate
acquaintance with artists and artist life, is a gentleman eminently
qualified to aid our countrymen in their purchases of pictures, which is
done with a disinterestedness and courtesy that have won for him the
warmest regards of Americans who have visited the place.
To be sure, some Americans, with very queer ideas of propriety in
pictures, visit Dusseldorf, as they do other places in Europe, sometimes
mortifying their countrymen by their absurd extravagances of conduct. At
one of the artists' exhibitions a fine picture was pointed out to me,
representing a cavalier who had just returned from the chase, and was
seated in an old mediæval hall. At one side, in the painting, was a
representation of a fine, wide, high, old, ornamented chimneypiece. This
picture attracted the attention of an American, well-known in his native
country as a proprietor of patent medicines. He saw nothing in the rich
costume and coloring of the cavalier's dress, the fine interior of the
old mediæval mansion; but he noticed that the mantel of the antique
fireplace was empty. Lucky circumstance! He proposed to purchase the
picture of the artist on condition of an alteration, or rather addition,
being made, which was the painting in of a bottle of the purchaser's
celebrated syrup, with its label distinctly visible, to be represented
occupying one end of the mantel, and boxes of pills and ointment (labels
visible) occupying the other end.
To his credit be it known, the artist absolutely refused to commit such
an outrage, notwithstanding double price was offered him for "the job;"
and the glories of Blank's pills continue to be painted in printer's
ink, and not the artist's colors.
Through the kind courtesy of Mr. Lewis, we were enabled to visit the
studios of nearly all the leading artists of Dusseldorf. We saw the fine
Swiss scenery of Lindler, the life-like, quaint old burghers and Dutch
figures of Stammel, the heavy Dutch horses and the quiet, natural,
rural, and roadside scenes of Hahn, and the sharp, bold style of
figure-painting of Stever, rich in color and striking in expression--an
artist whose pictures, in the exhibition, always have a group of
spectators about them; and then we saw Lewis's own clever landscapes and
Swiss mountain scenes, and finally went off to the Dusseldorf gallery,
where we saw a host of original sketches and drawings by the most
celebrated artists of all schools.
One thing newly-arrived Americans quickly learn here, as well as in Rome
and Florence; and that is, that good pictures command good prices: they
may be obtained at a lower figure than at home, yet they are by no means
sacrificed for a song. The facilities of travel are now so great, and
Americans and English with money to spend do so pervade the continent,
that the opportunities of obtaining really meritorious works of art at a
very low price in Europe are decreasing every day.
The Prussian soldiery are seen everywhere in Dusseldorf; they are a
fine, intellectual-looking set of men, not very tall, but splendidly
drilled. A regiment that I have seen pass, with its magnificent military
band at its head, was so exact in the perpendicular of the muskets
carried by the men, that I verily believe a plank might have been laid
upon the points of the upright bayonets, and it would have been found a
true level.
The band in the Hofgarten plays the Strauss waltzes deliciously. The
shady walks, the flower-beds, the pretty vases and fountains, are
enchantingly soothing and romantic on a summer's evening, under the
influence of music, Rhine wine or lager. But we must bid adieu to old
Dusseldorf, which we learn, with some surprise, as we turn our back upon
it for the city of perfumes (Cologne), to be a town of fifty thousand
inhabitants--a fact one would never dream of, from its lack of that
bustling spirit that characterizes an American town or city of that
population.
Now for the "castle-crowned Rhine." We leave Dusseldorf behind, and as
the steamboat journey from here is a somewhat dull and uninteresting
one, there being no features of natural beauty on the river between
the two points, we rattle down by Cologne and Minden Railway in about
an hour and a half, and quarter at the fine Hotel du Nord, at Cologne,
near the railway bridge, which is all of a bustle on account of the
arrival of the King of Sweden and suite; and some of the blue-eyed,
golden-haired blondes of that "suite" we had the pleasure of meeting
occasionally, as we passed in or out, would have been "all the rage"
in America, could they have been transplanted to that country.
Cologne, the oldest town on the Rhine, is built with long, winding,
semicircular, narrow streets, along the river. It is now the capital of
Rhenish Prussia, and appears to be a strongly fortified place, being
surrounded by strong, high walls. A bridge of boats and a stone bridge
span the Rhine from Cologne to a little town called Deutz, opposite, and
the city seems to have considerable business activity. Before one ever
sees the city, his impressions are, that its chief article of commerce
and manufacture is cologne water; and that impression is strengthened on
arrival, for about every other store, especially those in the square
about the cathedral, claims to be "_the_ original Jean Antoine Marie
Farina." The competition in this matter is ridiculous, and even
laughable; and the Farinas are so numerous, and opinion is so divided
respecting the original, that it is said if you purchase of either one
you will wish you had bought of another.
The cathedral at Cologne, grand and majestic in its proportions, rich in
ornament, and considered among lovers of architecture a masterpiece
among existing Gothic buildings, was commenced in 1248, and, though more
than six centuries have passed, is still unfinished, and the name of the
architect who planned the original designs of the structure unknown to
the world.
The sight of this great cathedral, that has been in process of
construction for so many centuries, sometimes nearly abandoned to ruin,
and then again carried forward by builders with new zeal, till at last
the original designs were forgotten, and men proceeded to work on at an
apparently endless task,--the style of work here and there marking the
age in which it was wrought,--was strikingly suggestive of the vanity of
human aspirations. It also brought to mind that almost forgotten old
German legend respecting a compact between the original architect of
this cathedral, I think, and his Satanic Majesty, in which the former
some way outwitted the latter, who, in revenge, caused him to be killed
by a fall from the tower bearing the well-known derrick so familiar in
all the pictures on the cologne-bottle labels. His Sulphuric Highness,
in the story, also vowed that the edifice should never be completed, and
that the architect's name should be forgotten by men.
The fiendish promise appears to have been faithfully kept, although, on
the other hand, it is averred by some American travellers that the
building is kept unfinished to extract contributions from the faithful
to complete it, and thereby furnish builders, workmen, and contractors
with work; indeed, a New York man was struck with the bright idea that
it would be to get the Prussian government to undertake it, and let the
job out to contractors, and he knew that the builders of the new City
Hall in New York would undertake it, and spend time and money enough
over it, and in a manner that would astonish the old church builders of
Europe.
The cathedral stands on a slight elevation, some fifty or sixty feet
above the Rhine, upon a portion of the old Roman camp-ground, where the
soldiers of Agrippina, the mother of Nero, rested after war's alarms,
and watched the flow of the winding river at their feet. Countless sums
of money have been lavished upon the building, and centuries of labor.
Guilty monarchs, and men whose hearts have reeked with sin, have
bestowed wealth upon it, in the hope to buy absolution for their crimes
with the same dross that had purchased so many of the world's coveted
pleasures. In 1816, forty-eight thousand pounds were expended on it, and
between 1842 and 1864 over three hundred thousand pounds were laid out.
The great southern portal, which is two hundred and twenty feet high,
cost alone one hundred and five thousand pounds. Some idea of the
vastness of the cathedral may be had from the figures representing its
dimensions. The interior is four hundred and thirty feet long and one
hundred and forty broad; the transept two hundred and thirty-four feet
long, and the choir one hundred and forty feet in height. The part which
is appropriated for divine service occupies an area of seventy thousand
square feet.
We strolled round this stupendous old building, and after shaking off
the guides and _valets de place_, who proffered their services, the
agents of cologne-water houses in the vicinity, and the venders of
books, stereoscopic views and pictures of it, and even a monkish old
fellow who came out of one of the side doors, and rattled a money-box
for subscriptions for the workmen, proceeded to have a look at it in our
own way. There stood out the old derrick, or crane, an iron arm fifty
feet long, that has projected from one of the towers, which is one
hundred and ninety feet high, for four hundred years, probably in
waiting to assist in completing the remaining two hundred and eighty-six
feet, the projected height being four hundred and seventy-six. The
Gothic arches, canopies, buttresses, and tracery, with statues of the
apostles and saints, are bewildering in detail and number. In one
ornamental arch is a relief containing no less than seventy different
figures, and another has fifty-eight small canopies wrought in it. In
fact, the building seems to be a monument of stone-cutters' skill, as
well as an exemplification of the detail of Gothic architecture; and you
may mark that which is crumbling to decay beneath the unsparing tooth of
time, and on the same edifice that which, sharp and fresh, but yesterday
left the sculptor's chisel; and so the work goes on. The central tower
and iron framework of the roof of the body of the church and transept
were only completed in 1861, and the interior of the church since 1863,
that is, if the interior can be said ever to be completed, with workmen
continually _finishing_ it.
To get inside we find that a series of tickets must be purchased of the
custodian who guards the entrance at the transept. These paid for, we
proceeded, under the pilotage of a good-natured, though not over-clean
churchman, to the various points of interest in the vast interior. We
had the same beautiful view of Gothic arches and cluster pillars that
form so grand a perspective in these cathedrals. We counted fifty-six
pillars in all. Those of the nave were one hundred and six feet in
height, and of the side aisles forty-five. The seven chapels are rich in
pictures, decorated altars, and relics. The most celebrated is that
known as the Chapel of the Three Magi, in which was a gorgeous crystal
casket, protected by a cover richly ornamented and set with precious
stones. When this was reverently removed, we beheld the tops of three
human skulls, circled with golden crowns, which our conductor gravely
informed us were the skulls of Caspar, Melchoir, and Balthazar, the
Three Magi, or Wise Men of the East, who figured at the adoration of our
Saviour.
One can hardly repress a smile at such assertions, made in the
nineteenth century, by a man who has had the advantages of education, as
our priestly guide evidently had; but the serious manner in which he
imparted his information, and to our doubting comments pointed to the
names set in rubies, and assured us that the relics were presented in
the twelfth century by the Emperor Frederic Barbarossa, and that he had
not time now to question historical facts, disposed of the subject in
our case. So, at the Church of St. Ursula here, where the bones of
_eleven thousand virgins_ (!), who were murdered in Cologne on their
return from a pilgrimage to Rome, are shown. The unbelieving Thomases of
the Protestant faith try the patience of the pious custodian sadly by
their irreverent questions and disrespectful remarks.
In the great sacristy and treasury of the cathedral we saw a rich
collection of magnificent vestments for priests, bishops, and other
church officials, costly gold and silver chalices, cruets, fonts,
goblets, church vessels, &c. Among these were several splendid
"monstrances" or a sort of framework, in which the consecrated wafer, or
host, is held up to view before the congregation in Roman Catholic
churches. One of these was of silver, weighing eight pounds and a half,
adorned with rubies and diamonds, with a superb diamond cross hanging
from it, and around it a collar of turquoises, amethysts, and sapphires;
there was another of solid silver, much heavier, the gift of Pope Pius
IX., and still a third, which far outshone all the rest in magnificence.
This last was a foot and a half in height, was of solid gold, and
weighed ten pounds and two ounces; it was studded with large jewels, and
the gold beautifully enamelled. The cylindrical space for enclosing the
host measured four and a half inches in diameter, and is cut out of a
piece of mountain crystal. The value of this monstrance is immense, and
it is only used on great holidays, and carried in procession but once a
year--Corpus Christi, the next Thursday after Trinity Sunday.
The cabinets in this treasury were rich indeed with material wealth of
the cathedral; and our priestly guide took a pride in displaying it,
furnishing me many facts for my note-book not down in the guide-books,
and anxious that we should have a correct idea of the wealth of the
Church. Two splendid silver censers, weighing nine pounds each, were
shown us; next came a great crucifix of polished ebony and silver, a
gold and enamelled flower set with precious stones, an enamelled
painting of the Crucifixion surrounded by diamonds, rubies, and pearls,
a cross and ring worn by the archbishop at every pontifical service,
magnificent ornaments set with diamonds and pearls, and valued at
twenty-five hundred pounds sterling; then there were splendid
reliquaries, richly set with jewels, some said to contain portions of
the true cross; splendid crosiers, one of ivory and crystal, of ancient
workmanship; crosses, silver busts, carved ivory figures, and the
splendid silver shrine of St. Engelbert, weighing one hundred and
forty-nine pounds, and adorned with bass-reliefs and numerous small
statuettes--a most valuable piece of plate, and curious work of art,
made in the year 1635.
From this rich storehouse of gold, silver, and jewels we passed out
once more into the body of the cathedral, where ragged women or
poverty-stricken men, with hunger in their cheeks, knelt on the pavement
to tell a string of beads, or mutter a prayer or two, and then rise and
follow us into the street to beg a few groschen, or, as we passed, to be
solicited by an individual, who had charge of a rattling money-box, for
a contribution towards the completion of the church.
Nearly two hundred workmen are at work upon the Cologne Cathedral,
renewing that which has crumbled from decay and time, and completing
that which is still unfinished. A good idea of its magnitude can be
obtained by a tour of the galleries. Access is had to these by a flight
of steps in one of the great pillars. One hundred and one steps--I
counted them as we went up--carry the visitor to a gallery which extends
across the transept. Up thirty-six steps more, and you reach another
gallery running around the whole building, in a tour of which you may
study the details of the architecture, and also have a fine view of the
town, and a beautiful one of the Rhine, and the lovely surrounding
landscape.
There is a gallery corresponding to this on the interior of the
building, which affords the visitor an equally good opportunity to
observe the interior decorations and architectural features. You mount
ninety-eight steps more, and reach a third gallery, which runs around
the entire roof of the cathedral, a distance of sixteen hundred feet.
Here the panorama is more extended and beautiful. You see the river
winding on its course far in the distance. Below are the semicircular
streets, the bridges of stone and of boats, the numerous little water
craft dotting the stream, and on every side the lovely landscape, fresh
and verdant in the summer sunlight. Above us, on the roof, or
ridge-pole, runs an ornamental gilt crest, looking like spikes from
below, but really a string of gilt spires, nearly five feet in height,
while the great cross above is twenty-seven feet high, and weighs
thirteen hundred and eighty-eight pounds. From this gallery we passed in
through a little door under the roofing, and above the vaulted arches of
the interior, to an opening which was surrounded by a railing. Through
this opening the spectator has an opportunity of looking to the interior
beneath him, and has a view directly downwards to the pavement, one
hundred and fifty feet below.
The middle steeple is yet to be ascended. This is strongly built of
iron, and ninety-four steps more carry us up to the highest point of
ascent--three hundred and twenty-nine steps in all. The star which
surmounts the steeple above us is three hundred and fifty feet from the
pavement. A glance below at the cathedral shows the form of its ground
plan, and the landscape view extends as far as the eye can reach.
Cologne is not an over-clean city, and we were not sorry to embark on
the _dampschift_, as they call the little Rhine steamboat, for our trip
to Mayence. These little steamers, with their awning-shaded decks, upon
which you may sit and dine, or enjoy the pure light wines of the
country,--which never taste so well anywhere else,--and view the
romantic and beautiful scenery upon the banks of this historic river as
you glide along, afford a most delightful mode of transit, and one
which we most thoroughly enjoyed, the weather being charming, and the
boat we were upon an excellent one, and not crowded with passengers.
The great Cathedral of Cologne, a conspicuous landmark, and the high
arches of the railroad bridge, gradually disappear as we steam away up
the river, looking on either side at the pleasant views, till the
steeple and residences of Bonn greet us, after a two hours' sail. Here
we make a landing, near the Grand Hotel Royal, a beautiful hotel, and
charmingly situated. Facing the river, its two wings extend from the
main body of the house, enclosing a spacious garden, which stretches
down to the river banks, and is tastefully laid out with winding walks,
rustic arbors, and flower-beds. From its garden and windows you may gaze
upon the charming panorama of the river, with the peaks of the Seven
Mountains rising in the distance, and the Castle of Godesburg on its
lofty peak, near the river.
But our little steamer fumes and fusses at its landing-place, eager to
depart; so we step on board, and it steams once more out against the
curling current between the hills of Rhineland. The scenery now
becomes more varied and interesting; pleasant little roads wind off in
the distance amid the hills; a chapel is perched here and there, and
ever and anon we meet some big, flat-bottomed boat floating idly down
the stream, loaded with produce, with a heavy, loose-jacketed,
broad-leaf-hatted German lounging in the stern, smoking a painted or
ornamented pipe, and you think of the pictures you have so often
stared at in the windows of the print shops.
We begin to note the vineyards on the sloping banks, the vines on sticks
four or five feet high, and sometimes in what appears to be unpromising
looking ground.
We pass various little towns with unpronounceable names, such as
Niederdollendorf, for instance. We make occasional landings, and take on
board women with queer head-dresses, and coarse, black, short dresses,
stout shoes, and worsted stockings, and men with many-buttoned jackets,
holiday velvet vests, painted porcelain pipes, and heavy, hob-nailed
shoes; children in short, blue, coarse jean, and wooden shoes, all of
whom occupy a position on the lower forward deck, among the light
freight--chiefly provisions and household movables--that the steamer
carries. The shores begin to show a background of hills; the Seven
Mountains are in view, and Drachenfels (Dragon's Rock), with its castle
perched eight hundred and fifty-five feet above the river, on its
vine-clad height, realizes one's ideas of those ancient castles where
the old robber chieftains of the middle ages established themselves, and
from these strongholds issued on their freebooting expeditions, or
watched the river for passing crafts, from which to exact tribute. The
scenery about here is lovely; the little villages on the banks, the
vine-clad hills, little Gothic churches, the winding river, and the
highlands swelling blue in the distance, all fill out a charming
picture.
Still we glide along, and the arched ruin of Rolandseck, on its hill
three hundred and forty feet above the river, appears in view. A single
arch of the castle alone remains darkly printed against the sky, and,
like all Rhine castles, it has its romantic story, which you read from
your guide-book as you glide along the river, or hear told by some
dreamy tourist, who has the romance in him, which the sight of these
crumbling old relics of the past excites. And he tells you how Roland, a
brave crusader of Charlemagne's army, left his lady love near this
place, when he answered the summons of the monarch to the Holy Land; how
the lady, after his prolonged absence, heard that he was dead, and
betook herself to a convent on the picturesque little island of
Nonnenworth; how the bold crusader, who had not been killed, hastened
back on the wings of love, eager to claim his bride after his long
absence, and found her in the relentless clutch of a convent; how, in
despair, he built this castle, which commanded a view of the cloisters,
where he could hear the sound of the convent bell, and occasionally
catch a glimpse of a fair form that he knew full well, passing to her
devotions; how, at last, she came no more, but the tolling bell and
nuns' procession told him that she whom he loved was dead; and how,
from that moment, the knight spoke no more, but died heart-broken, his
last gaze turned towards the convent where his love had died; and all
that remains of the knightly lover's castle is the solitary wall that
lifts its ruined arch distinct against the dark-blue sky.
We pass the little island of Nonnenworth; and the nunnery is still upon
it, founded far back in the eleventh century, but rebuilt in the
fifteenth, and suppressed by Napoleon in 1802, and now a sort of school
under the management of Franciscan nuns. The view about here, looking
down the river, is romantic and beautiful. On one side, on the more
level country, lie several small villages; then, down along the banks of
the river, rise the rugged cliffs, the ruined castles of Rolandseck and
Drachenfels crowning two jutting points of the hills, and in the
distance, mellowed by the haze, the peaks of the hills known as the
Seven Mountains, and Löwenberg peak, crowned with a crumbling ruin, rise
to view, which, with the little island and its convent for a foreground,
form a charming picture.
We sail along, and make another landing for passengers at Remagen.
Opposite Remagen we see a huge cliff, which rises nearly six hundred and
fifty feet above the river, and is profitable, as well as picturesque,
for it is a stone quarry, the product of which can be placed directly
into the river craft at its base. The Rhine now describes a long curve,
as we approach Nieder-Breisig. A little village called Duttenberg is
wedged in between the hills, on a little river that empties into the
Rhine, and, as we pass it, the tall, round, stone towers of Arenfels
come in view. Then we reach Nieder-Breisig, and opposite is Rheineck,
with its modern-built tower crowning the height. Then we come to the two
Hammersteins, with their vineyards and castle, and then the picturesque
old town of Andernach heaves in sight, with its tall watch-tower
overlooking the river. Then come Kaltenengens and others, which I at
last became tired of noting down, and enjoyed the afternoon sunset that
was softening the vine-clad slopes, and lighting up the arches and
windows of each ruined castle, chapel, or watch-tower that was sure to
crown every conspicuous eminence, until, at last, our little steamer
rounded in at the pier at Coblentz, with its fine hotels strung along
near the river bank, and the Gibraltar of the Rhine, the grim old Castle
of Ehrenbreitstein, looking down on us from its rocky eminence on the
opposite shore.
Coblentz, the guide-books tell us, is a famous stopping-place for
tourists on the Rhine, between Cologne and Mayence, being equi-distant
from both. It is certainly a capital half-way resting-place, and,
however pleasing the steamboat trip may have been, the traveller can but
enjoy the change to one of the clean, well-kept hotels at this beautiful
situation.
The hotel agents were at the pier,--spoke English and French
fluently,--and we were soon installed into the pleasantest of rooms,
commanding a view of the river, whose swiftly-flowing current rolls not
fifty paces distant. A bridge of boats spans it, and high above the
river bank rises the old castle, upon the battlements of which I can see
the glitter of the sentinels' bayonets in the summer sunset.
The bridge of boats, and the passengers who cross it, are a
never-ceasing source of entertainment to us; soldiers and
elegantly-dressed officers from the castle; country girls, with curious
head-dresses; and now and then a holiday-rigged peasant; costermongers'
carts and dog-teams--one, consisting of three big dogs abreast, came
over at full gallop, the driver, a boy, cracking his whip, and the whole
team barking furiously. We saw a whole regiment of Prussian infantry,
armed with the Prussian needle-gun, march over from the castle--a fine
body of men, and headed by a band of forty pieces, playing in a style
that would make the military enthusiasm, if the listener possessed any,
tingle to the very soles of his feet. When steamboats or other craft
desire to pass this floating bridge, a section is detached,--a sort of
floating "draw,"--and suffered to swing out with the stream; the steamer
passes the gap; after which the detached section is pulled back to
position again.
Right at this charming bend of the river, on one side of the town, flows
the Moselle, as we call it, but Mözle, as you learn to pronounce it in
Europe--the blue Moselle. "On the banks of the blue Moselle," ran the
old song; and as picturesque and poetical a river as can be imagined is
the Moselle, with its arched bridge spanning it, and its sparkling
stream winding through a lovely landscape; but the portion of Coblentz
that borders on its bank is poor and dirty, and in striking contrast
with the elegant buildings and bright appearance of the Rhine front of
the town: the "blue" of the Moselle refuses to mix with the more turbid
glacier-tinted Rhine, and for a long distance down the stream this blue
makes itself visible and distinct from the Rhine water, till gradually
absorbed by it.
We are now beginning to come to those charming hotels on the great lines
of continental travel routes, which in Germany and Switzerland are not
the least attractive features of the tour. Here at Coblentz I enjoy
excellent accommodations, room fresh and fragrant, with clean linen,
spotless curtains, and not a speck of dust visible, my windows
commanding the charming Rhine panorama, waiters speaking French, German,
and English, a well-served _table d'hote_, and all for less than half
the price charged in America.
The wine-drinkers here, from America, are in ecstasies, for we appear to
be at headquarters for the light Rhine wines of the country; two francs
buy a bottle costing one dollar and twenty-five cents at home, and five
francs such as cannot be got in America for three dollars. The sparkling
Moselle and celebrated Johannisberger are to be had here in perfection,
and the newly-arrived American is not long in ascertaining what a
different thing the same brand of wine is in this country from what it
is at home.
"Ah, if we had wine like this at home, how I should like to have it
oftener!" have I heard frequently said by travellers. It is too true
that it is extremely difficult to get pure (imported) wines and liquors,
pay what price one may in America; and perhaps one reason why the light
wines of Germany are so agreeable to the tourist's palate, is in the
surroundings and the time they are taken, such as on the deck of a Rhine
steamer, at the top of a steep crag, in a picturesque old castle, in a
German garden, where a capital orchestra makes the very atmosphere
luxuriant with Strauss waltzes and Gungl galops, or at the gay _table
d'hote_ with pleasure-seeking tourists, who, like himself, are only
studying how to enjoy themselves, recounting past pleasure jaunts, or
planning new ones.
However, be this as it may, it is, I believe, acknowledged that the only
place to get the Rhine wines is in Rhineland; and the difference between
them and the compounds furnished in America is obvious to the dullest
taste. The purest and most reliable wines now in our own country are the
California and other native wines, although they are not so fashionable
as the doctored foreign, and imitation of foreign that are palmed off as
genuine.
As I looked from my windows over the river and up at the fortress of
Ehrenbreitstein, seated on its rocky perch three hundred and
seventy-seven feet above the river, and the eye caught the occasional
glitter of a weapon, or the ear the faint rattle of a drum, or the sound
of the bugle call, softened by the distance, I found myself repeating
fragments of Byron's Childe Harold.
"Here Ehrenbreitstein with her shattered wall,
Black with the miner's blast upon her height,
Yet shows of what she was when shell and ball
Rebounding lightly on her strength did light."
"A tower of victory" it is indeed, for it has only twice been taken by
an enemy during the best part of a thousand years--once by stratagem,
and once being reduced by famine.
We crossed the bridge of boats, which is fourteen hundred and ten feet
long, got tickets of admission to the fortress in the little town of
Ehrenbreitstein the other side, mounted with labor up the steep ascent,
and as we came within view of these tremendous works, upon which money
and engineering skill seem to have been expended without stint, we did
not wonder at their impregnability, or that they excite so much
admiration among the military engineers of the world. From the ramparts
we enjoyed a magnificent view of the whole river and the country between
Andernach and Stolzenfels. Below us was triangular-shaped Coblentz, and
its row of handsome buildings facing the River Rhine, the bridge of
boats and never-ending moving diorama sort of scene, while at the right
of the town glided the blue Moselle, its azure waters moving unmixed as
they flowed along with the Rhine, and the railroad bridge spanning the
stream with its graceful arches; beyond that the fortifications of Fort
Franz, commanding the river and vicinity; and far off to the right of
that a fertile plain towards Andernach, the scene of Cæsar's first
passage of the Rhine, B. C. 55, and of the sieges of the thirty years
war, in 1631 to 1660, and the bloody campaigns of Louis XIV.
Farther to our left, and near the junction of the two rivers, we
observed the Church of St. Castor, built in 1208; and it was in a small
square near this church, in one of our walks about the town, that we
came to a little monument, raised by a French official at the
commencement of the campaign against Russia, bearing this inscription:--
"Made memorable by the campaign against the Russians, under the
prefecturate of Jules Doazan, 1812."
When the Russian general entered the town, he added these words, which
still remain:--
"Seen and approved by the Russian commander of the city of
Coblentz, January 1, 1814."
A delightful afternoon ride, in an open carriage, along the river bank
for three or four miles, brought us to the foot of the ascent leading to
the castle of Stolzenfels, which looks down upon the river from a rocky
eminence about four hundred feet above it. Refusing the proffers of
donkeys or _chaise à porter_ for the ladies, we determined to make the
ascent on foot, and very soon found that the "guides," donkeys, and
portable chairs were "a weak invention of the enemy," for the road,
although winding, was broad, easy, and delightfully shady and romantic.
We passed an old Roman mile-stone on the road, and after crossing a
drawbridge, reached the royal castle.
This most beautifully restored relic of the middle ages was, in 1802, a
ruin of a castle of five hundred years before; in 1823 it was partially
restored, and since then has been completely rebuilt and beautified at a
cost of fifty-three thousand pounds sterling. Everything is in good
proportion, Stolzenfels being somewhat of a miniature castle, its
_great_ banquet hall scarcely double the size of a good-sized
drawing-room; but its whole interior and exterior are a model of
exquisite taste. It has its little castle court-yard, its beautifully
contrived platform overlooking the Rhine, its watch-towers and its
turrets, all undersized, but in exact proportions. Through the tower
windows, which are wreathed with ivy; from the windows of little
boudoirs of rooms, which were cabinets of rare china and exquisite
cabinet paintings; from embrasures in galleries and halls which had
exquisite statuettes, instead of large size statues; from little Gothic
windows in the chapel; and, in fact, from every conceivable and most
unexpected point was the visitor encountering different lovely framed
views, as it were, of the natural scenery of the country. These outlooks
were so skilfully contrived as each to give a different view, and as at
this point of the Rhine is the narrowest and most romantic part of the
valley, the views are of the most enchanting description.
Looking out of an ivy-wreathed window of Stolzenfels, the spectator
would see, framed, as it were, in stone-work and green leaves, a picture
of the river, with its boats and bridges: through another, or an
embrasure, a square-framed picture of an elevation on the opposite bank,
crowned by a pilgrims' chapel, while from the watch-tower you look down
upon the lovely valley of the River Lahn, which near this point flows
into the Rhine; and from another turret we look back upon the massy
walls of Ehrenbreitstein, Coblentz, with the apex of its triangle
pointing out into the stream, and behind its base the strong walls of
Fort Constantine, marked out like stone lines on the greensward. The
apartments in this castle are exquisitely furnished, and the furniture,
tapestry, pictures, and statues adapted to harmonize with their size,
which is fairy-like in comparison with castles generally.
In one hall were a series of beautiful frescoes of chivalric
scenes--Godfrey de Bouillon at the Holy Sepulchre; John of Bohemia at
the Battle of Cressy; Rudolph of Hapsburg judging knightly robbers, &c.
There was a beautiful little chapel with elegant frescoes. In the armory
were specimens of light and curious armor, among which were swords of
Napoleon, Blucher, and Murat, specimens of exquisite Toledo blades,
arabesque ornamented daggers, exquisitely wrought and flexible
chain-mail shirts, and other curiosities of defensive armor. In the
different rooms through which we were conducted, among other works of
the old masters, were cabinet pictures by Holbein, Titian, Van Dyck,
Albert Dürer, Rembrandt, &c. The charming views of the surrounding
scenery without, and the exquisite taste displayed on the interior of
this royal castle, made us regret to leave its little leaf-clad turrets,
fairy-like watch-towers, romantic terraces, and picturesque battlements;
and we believed the custodian when he averred that Queen Victoria was
charmed with the place when she visited it a few years since, for it was
fit to charm even a queen with its beauty.