To-day we made our first essay on the Rhine. Switzerland is a poor
preparation for admiring any common scenery; but the Rhine from
Strasbourg to Manheim seemed only a muddy strip of water, with low
banks, poplars, and willows. If there was any thing better, we passed
it while I was asleep; for I did sleep, even on the classic Rhine.
Day before yesterday, at Basle, I went into the museum, and there saw
some original fragments of the Dance of Death, and many other pictures
by Holbein, with two miniature likenesses of Luther and his wife, by
Lucas Cranach; they are in water colors. Catharine was no beauty at
that time, if Lucas is to be trusted, and Luther looks rather savage.
But I saw a book of autographs, and several original letters of
Luther's. I saw the word "Jesus" at the top of one of them, thus, "J.
U. S." The handwriting was fair, even, and delicate. I laid my hand on
it, and thought his hand also had passed over the paper which he has
made living with his thoughts. Melanchthon, of whom a far more
delicate penmanship might have been expected, wrote a coarse, rugged
hand, quite like Dr. Bishop's. It somehow touched my heart to see this
writing of Luther's, so fair, and clean, and flowing; and to think of
his _vive_ and ever-surging spirits, his conflicts and his
victories.
We were awakened, about eight o'clock this morning, by the cathedral
bell, which is near by, and by the chanting of the service. It was a
beautiful, sunny morning, and I could hear them sing all the time I
was dressing. I think, by the style of the singing, it was Protestant
service: it brought to mind the elms of Andover--the dewy, exquisite
beauty of the Sabbath mornings there; and I felt, more than ever, why
am I seeking any thing more beautiful than home? But today the sweet
shadow of God's presence is still over me, and the sense of his love
and protection falls silently into my soul like dew.
At breakfast time Professor M. and his daughter called, as he said, to
place themselves at our disposal for the castle, or whatever we might
wish to see. I intimated that we would prefer spending the day in our
New England manner of retirement--a suggestion which he took at once.
After breakfast the servant asked us if we should like to have a room
commanding a view of the castle. "To be sure," said I. So he ushered
us into a large, elegantly-furnished apartment, looking out
immediately upon it. There it sat, upon its green throne, a regal,
beautiful, poetic thing, fair and sad.
We had singing and prayers, and a sermon from C. We did not go to the
_table d'hôte_, for we abominate its long-drawn, endless
formalities. But one part of the arrangements we enjoyed without
going: I mean the music. To me all music is sacred. Is it not so? All
real music, in its passionate earnest, its blendings, its wild,
heart-searching tones, is the language of aspiration. So it may not be
meant, yet, when we know God, so we translate it.
In the evening we took tea with Professor M., in a sociable way, much
like the _salon_ of Paris. Mrs. M. sat at a table, and poured out
tea, which a servant passed about on a waiter. Gradually quite a
circle of people dropped in--among them Professor Mittemeyer, who, I
was told, is the profoundest lawyer in Germany; also there was
Heinrich von Gagen, who was head of the convention of the empire in
1848, and prime minister. He is tall, has a strongly-marked face, very
dark hair and eyebrows. There was also a very young man, with quite
light hair, named Fisher, who, they told me, was one of the greatest
philosophers of the time; but government had taken away his license to
lecture, on account of his pantheistic principles. I understand that
this has occasioned much feeling, and that some of the professors side
with, and some against him. A lady told me that the theological
professors were against him. I wonder people do not see that this kind
of suppression of opinion is a sword with two edges, which may cut
orthodoxy equally with pantheism. "Let both grow together," says
Christ, "the wheat and the tares." In America we do this, and a
nodding crop of all sorts we have. The more the better; the earth must
exhaust herself before the end can come.
Mr. M. spoke English, as did his very pretty daughter, Ida; his wife
only French and German. Now, if you had only been there, we might have
had quite a brilliant time; but my ignorance of German kept me from
talking with any but those who could speak English. Professor
Mittemeyer summoned English enough to make a long compliment, to which
I responded as usual, by looking very foolish. There was a well
informed gentleman there, who was formerly private secretary to Prince
Albert, and who speaks English well. He has a bright, ingenious mind,
and knows every thing, and seemed particularly willing to give me the
benefit of his knowledge, for which I was suitably grateful. On the
whole, I spent a very pleasant evening, and we parted about nine
o'clock, Miss Ida promising to be our guide to the castle in the
morning.
Well, in the morning I was too unwell to leave the sofa. I knew the
old symptoms, and remained in my room, while Professor M. and
daughter, with S, W., and G, went up to the castle. I lay all day on
the sofa, until, at five o'clock at night, I felt so much better that
I thought we might take a carriage and drive up. C. accompanied me,
and _cocher_ took us by a beautiful drive along the valley
of the Neckar, over the hills back of the castle, and finally through
the old arched gateway into the grounds. I had no idea before of the
extent or the architectural beauty of the place. The terrace behind
the castle is a most lovely spot. It wanted only silence and solitude
to make it perfect; it was full of tourists, as also was each ruined
nook and arch. I sauntered about alone, for C. had a sick headache,
and was forced to sit on one of the stone benches. Heidelberg Castle
is of vast extent, and various architecture; parts of it, a guide book
says, were designed by Michael Angelo. Over one door was a Hebrew
inscription. Marshalled in niches in the wall stood statues of
electors and knights in armor--silent, lonely. The effect was quite
different from the old Gothic ruins I had seen. This spoke of courts,
of princes; and the pride and grandeur of the past, contrasted with
the silence and desertion, reminded me of the fable of the city of
enchantment, where king and court were smitten to stone as they stood.
A mournful lion's head attracted my attention, it had such a strange,
sad look; and there was a fountain broken and full of weeds.
I looked on the carvings, the statues, the broken arches, where
bluebells and wild flowers were waving, and it seemed inexpressibly
beautiful. It haunted me in my dreams, and I found myself walking up
and down that terrace, in a kind of dim, beautiful twilight, with some
friend: it was a strange dream of joy. But I felt myself very ill even
while there, and had to take my sofa again as soon as I returned.
There lying, I took my pencil, and drew just the view of the castle
which I could see from my window, as a souvenir of the happiness I had
felt at Heidelberg.
[Illustration: _of the author's window view of Heidelberg._]
Now, I know you will say with me that a day of such hazy, dreamy
enjoyment is worth a great deal. We cannot tell why it is, or what it
is, but one feels like an Æolian breathed on and touched by soft
winds.
[Illustration: _of Heidelberg castle._]
This sketch of the castle gives only about half of it. Those tiny
statues indicated in it on the points of the gables are figures in
armor of large size. The two little kiosks or summer houses that you
see, you will find, by turning back to the other picture, mark the
extremities of the terrace. There is a singular tinge of the Moorish
about this architecture which gives me great delight. That Moorish
development always seemed to me strangely exciting and beautiful.