A WALK THROUGH THE ODENWALD.
B---- and I are now comfortably settled in Frankfort, having, with Mr.
Willis's kind assistance, obtained lodgings with the amiable family,
with whom he has resided for more than two years. My cousin remains in
Heidelberg to attend the winter course of lectures at the University.
Having forwarded our baggage by the omnibus, we came hither on foot,
through the heart of the Odenwald, a region full of interest, yet little
visited by travellers. Dr. S---- and his family walked with us three or
four miles of the way, and on a hill above Ziegelhausen, with a splendid
view behind us, through the mountain-door, out of which the Neckar
enters on the Rhine-plain, we parted. This was a first, and I must
confess, a somewhat embarrassing experience in German leave-taking.
After bidding adieu three or four times, we started to go up the
mountain and they down it, but at every second step we had to turn
around to acknowledge the waving of hands and handkerchiefs, which
continued so long that I was glad when we were out of sight of each
other. We descended on the other side into a wild and romantic valley,
whose meadows were of the brightest green; a little brook which wound
through them, put now and then its "silvery shoulder" to the wheel of a
rustic mill. By the road-side two or three wild-looking gipsies sat
around a fire, with some goats feeding near them.
Passing through this valley and the little village of Schönau, we
commenced ascending one of the loftiest ranges of the Odenwald. The side
of the mountain was covered with a thick pine forest. There was no wind
to wake its solemn anthem; all was calm and majestic, and even awful.
The trees rose all around like the pillars of a vast Cathedral, whose
long arched aisles vanished far below in the deepening gloom.
"Nature with folded hands seemed there,
Kneeling at her evening prayer,"
for twilight had already begun to gather. We went on and up and ever
higher, like the youth in "Excelsior;" the beech and dwarf oak took the
place of the pine, and at last we arrived at a cleared summit whose long
brown grass waved desolately in the dim light of evening. A faint glow
still lingered over the forest-hills, but down in the valley the dusky
shades hid every vestige of life, though its sounds came up softened
through the long space. When we reached the top a bright planet stood
like a diamond over the brow of the eastern hill, and the sound of a
twilight bell came up clearly and sonorously on the cool damp air. The
white veil of mist slowly descended down the mountain side, but the
peaks rose above it like the wrecks of a world, floating in space. We
made our way in the dusk down the long path, to the rude little dorf of
Elsbach. I asked at the first inn for lodging, where we were ushered
into a great room, in which a number of girls who had been at work in
the fields, were assembled. They were all dressed in men's jackets, and
short gowns, and some had their hair streaming down their back. The
landlord's daughter, however, was a beautiful girl, whose modest,
delicate features contrasted greatly with the coarse faces of the
others. I thought of Uhland's beautiful little poem of "The Landlady's
Daughter," as I looked on her. In the room hung two or three pair of
antlers, and they told us deer were still plenty in the forests.
When we left the village the next morning, we again commenced ascending.
Over the whole valley and halfway up the mountain, lay a thick white
frost, almost like snow, which contrasted with the green trees and
bushes scattered over the meadows, produced the most singular effect. We
plucked blackberries ready iced from the bushes by the road-side, and
went on in the cold, for the sun shone only on the top of the opposite
mountain, into another valley, down which rushed the rapid Ulver. At a
little village which bears the beautiful name _Anteschönmattenwag_, we
took a foot-path directly over a steep mountain to the village of
Finkenbach. Near the top I found two wild-looking children, cutting
grass with knives, both of whom I prevailed upon for a few kreutzers to
stand and let me sketch them. From the summit the view on the other side
was very striking. The hills were nearly every one covered with wood,
and not a dwelling in sight. It reminded me of our forest scenery at
home. The principal difference is, that our trees are two or three times
the size of theirs.
At length, after scaling another mountain, we reached a wide, elevated
plain, in the middle of which stood the old dorf of Beerfelden. It was
then crowded with people, on account of a great cattle-fair being held
there. All the farmers of the neighborhood were assembled, clad in the
ancient country costume--broad cocked hats and blue frocks. An orchard
near the town was filled with cattle and horses, and near by, in the
shade, a number of pedlars had arranged their wares. The cheerful
looking country people touched their hats to us as we passed. This
custom of greeting travellers, universal in Germany, is very expressive
of their social, friendly manners. Among the mountains, we frequently
met groups of children, who sang together their simple ballads as we
passed by.
From Beerfelden we passed down the valley of the Mimling to Erbach, the
principal city in the Odenwald, and there stopped a short time to view
the Rittersaal in the old family castle of the Counts of Erbach. An
officer, who stood at the gates, conducted us to the door, where we were
received by a noble-looking, gray-headed steward. He took us into the
Rittersaal at once, which was like stepping back three hundred years.
The stained windows of the lofty Gothic hall, let in a subdued light
which fell on the forms of kings and knights, clad in the armor they
wore during life. On the left as we entered, were mail-covered figures
of John and Cosmo do Medici; further on stood the Emperor Maximilian,
and by his side the celebrated dwarf who was served up in a pie at one
of the imperial feasts. His armor was most delicate and beautiful, but
small as it was, General Thumb would have had room in it. Gustavus
Adolphus and Wallenstein looked down from the neighboring pedestals,
while at the other end stood Goetz von Berlichingen and Albert of
Brunswick. Guarding the door were Hans, the robber-knight of Nuremberg,
and another from the Thüringian forest. The steward told me that the
iron hand of Goetz was in possession of the family, but not shown to
strangers; he pointed out, however, the buckles on the armor, by which
it was fastened. Adjoining the hall is an antique chapel, filled with
rude old tombs, and containing the sarcophagus of Count Eginhard of
Denmark, who lived about the tenth century. There were also monkish
garments five hundred years old hanging up in it.
The collection of antiquities is large and interesting; but it is said
that the old Count obtained some of them in rather a questionable
manner. Among other incidents, they say that when in Rome he visited the
Pope, taking with him an old servant who accompanied him in all his
travels, and was the accomplice in most of his antiquarian thefts. In
one of the outer halls, among the curiosities, was an antique shield of
great value. The servant was left in this hall while the Count had his
audience, and in a short time this shield was missed. The servant who
wore a long cloak, was missed also; orders were given to close the gates
and search every body, but it was too late--the thief was gone.
Leaving Erbach we found out the direction of Snellert, the Castle of the
Wild Huntsman, and took a road that led us for two or three hours along
the top of a mountain ridge. Through the openings in the pine and larch
forests, we had glimpses of the hills of Spessart, beyond the Main. When
we finally left the by-road we had chosen it was quite dark, and we
missed the way altogether among the lanes and meadows. We came at last
to a full stop at the house of a farmer, who guided us by a foot path
over the fields to a small village. On entering the only inn, kept by
the Burgomaster, the people finding we were Americans, regarded us with
a curiosity quite uncomfortable. They crowded around the door, watching
every motion, and gazed in through the windows. The wild huntsman
himself could scarcely have made a greater sensation. The news of our
arrival seemed to have spread very fast, for the next morning when we
stopped at a prune orchard some distance from the village to buy some
fruit, the farmer cried out from a tree, "they are the Americans; give
them as many as they want for nothing!"
With the Burgomaster's little son for a guide, we went back a mile or
two of our route to Snellert, which we had passed the night before, and
after losing ourselves two or three times in the woods, arrived at last
at the top of the mountain, where the ruins of the castle stand. The
walls are nearly level with the ground. The interest of a visit rests
entirely on the romantic legend, and the wild view over the hills
around, particularly that in front, where on the opposite mountain are
the ruins of Rodenstein, to which the wild Huntsman was wont to ride at
midnight--where he now rides no more. The echoes of Rodenstein are no
longer awakened by the sound of his bugle, and the hoofs of his demon
steed clanging on the battlements. But the hills around are wild enough,
and the roar of the pine forests deep enough to have inspired the simple
peasants with the romantic tradition.
Stopping for dinner at the town of Rheinheim, we met an old man, who, on
learning we were Americans, walked with us as far as the next village.
He had a daughter in America and was highly gratified to meet any one
from the country of her adoption. He made me promise to visit her, if I
ever should go to St. Louis, and say that I had walked with her father
from Rheinheim to Zwangenburg. To satisfy his fears that I might forget
it, I took down his name and that of his daughter. He shook me warmly by
the hand at parting, and was evidently made happier for that day.
We reached Darmstadt just in time to take a seat in the omnibus for
Frankfort. Among the passengers were a Bavarian family, on their way to
Bremen, to ship from thence to Texas. I endeavored to discourage the man
from choosing such a country as his home, by telling him of its heats
and pestilences, but he was too full of hope to be shaken in his
purpose. I would have added that it was a slave-land, but I thought on
our own country's curse, and was silent. The wife was not so sanguine;
she seemed to mourn in secret at leaving her beautiful fatherland. It
was saddening to think how lonely they would feel in that far home, and
how they would long, with true German devotion, to look again on the
green vintage-hills of their forsaken country. As night drew on, the
little girl crept over to her father for his accustomed evening kiss,
and then sank back to sleep in a corner of the wagon. The boy, in the
artless confidence of childhood, laid his head on my breast, weary with
the day's travel, and soon slept also. Thus we drove on in the dark,
till at length the lights of Frankfort glimmered on the breast of the
rapid Main, as we passed over the bridge, and when we stopped near the
Cathedral, I delivered up my little charge and sent my sympathy with the
wanderers on their lonely way.