hedges but fine woods in the distance. We arrived at St. Juliers,
strongly fortified, where they took our names at entering and at
exiting. It is a neat town, and was besieged last year. We were at the
post taken by a man for Frenchmen, and he told us we had been driven
from Russia by a band of the Emperor. He seemed to be very fond of them,
and gave as a reason that he had been employed by them for many years.
And, I forgetfully saying, "What! were they here?"—"Yes, and farther." I
answered, "Jusqu'à Moscou." "Oui, et presque plus loin." That "presque"
means much. The French were not generally liked, I believe. The lower
orders perhaps liked them, but the middle, I doubt. But I cannot say; I
may perhaps be influenced by the opinion of a beautiful face of this
town, who, on my asking her whether the _dames n'aimaient pas beaucoup
les Français_, answered, "_Oui, les dames publiques_."
We find it a great inconvenience that the Poste is a separate concern,
and generally pretty distant from the inn. The women are many of them
very beautiful, and many of them, as well as the men, have fine dark
eyes and hair. The men wear ear-rings, and curl their hair; which, if I
remember rightly, was the custom in the time of Tacitus. Many of the
women wear their hair combed quite back, and upon it a little square
piece of linen. The French were particularly polite during the siege.
We entered the dominions of the King of Prussia a little beyond Battice.
It causes a strange sensation to an Englishman to pass into one state
from another without crossing any visible line. Indeed, we should not
have perceived that we had, if we had not been stopped by a Belgian
guard who asked us if we had anything to declare. The difference is,
however, very striking. The men, the women, everything, improve—except
the cottages. The people look cleaner, though everything else is dirty;
contrary to the Belgians, they seem to collect their cleanliness upon
themselves, instead of throwing it upon their cots, tins, trees, and
shrubs.
We arrived at Cologne after much bad, sandy, heavy road, at 11. The
pavement begins to be interrupted after Aix, but ends almost entirely
after St. Juliers. Cologne is upon a flat on the Rhine. We were groaning
at having no sight of far-famed Cologne, when we came suddenly under its
battlements and towers. We passed through its fortifications without
question. After having found the gates shut, and feed the porter, we
found inns full, and at last got into the Hôtel de Prague.
_May 9._—Got up very bad.[2] Sat down to breakfast. Just done, we heard
some singing. Enquiry told us, buyable. Got them up. A harp played by a
dark-haired German, pretty, and two fiddlers. She played and sang _The
Troubadour_, which brought back a chain of Scotch recollections, and a
German song; then a beautiful march, in which the music died away and
then suddenly revived. After a waltz we dismissed them. We both mounted
a voiture, and drove through the town to the Cathedral. Great part
pulled down by the revolutionists, and the roof of the nave obliged to
be restored with plain board—a staring monument over Gallic ruin. There
is fine stained glass, and the effect of its being very high and
variegated in the choir is beautiful. We saw a fine painting here by
Kalf: vide _Taschbuch_. The tomb of the three kings said to be worth
three millions of francs, and an immensely rich treasury wherein was a
sacrament worth one million of francs. In falling down a step I broke a
glass, for which they at first would not take anything—which at last
cost me three francs. Kept countenance amazingly well.
Went to see St. Ursula's Church, where we were shown virgins' skulls of
ninety years old, male and female, all jumbled into a mass of 11,000
virgins' bones arranged all in order—some gilt, etc. A whole room
bedecked with them. All round, indeed, whatever we saw were relics,
skulls; some in the heads of silver-faced busts, some arranged in little
cells with velvet cases, wherein was worked the name of each. Paintings
of St. Ursula, etc. Asked for a piece out of the masses: only got a
smile, and a point of a finger to an interdiction in Latin, which I did
not read.
We went to see a picture of Rubens, _The Nailing of St. Peter to a
Cross_; the best design, though not very good, I yet have seen of his. A
German artist copying it spoke English to us.
Returned home. Sent my name to Professor Wallraf: got admission. Found a
venerable old man who has spent his life in making a collection of
paintings and other objects of vertù belonging to his country, Cologne,
which he intends leaving to his native town.
[This is no doubt the Wallraf who was joint founder of the celebrated
Wallraf-Richartz Museum in Cologne. The statement which ensues as to an
early oil-painter named Kaft is noticeable; whether correct I am unable
to say. The Wallraf-Richartz Museum does not contain any painting by
Tintoretto to which the name _Campavella_ could apply: there is a fine
picture by him of _Ovid and Corinna_.]
Many pictures were extremely good, especially painting of individuals.
Kaft was a native of this town, who painted in oil before oil-painting
was known. Saw some Poussins, Claude Lorraines. Some moderate. A
Tintoretto of _Campavella_ beautiful: colouring and drawing strong and
expressive. A Rembrandt and a Teniers, etc. A master of Rubens. A copy
in colours from the drawing of Raphael by one of his disciples. Cologne
has stamped more coins than some empires, and has coined twenty-six
kinds of gold. He had made drawings of them, but the revolution stopped
it. The revolutionary Gauls, he said with a tear in his eye, had
destroyed many very valuable relics of Cologne; and, pointing to a leaf
of a missal with another tear, he said: "Many like this once adorned our
churches: this is all." He had the original manuscript of Albert le
Grand, _History of Animals_; Titian's four designs of the Cæsars at
Polenham, with his own handwriting; the Albert Durer's sketch of
Christ's head which belonged to Charles II; and a painting of Albert
Durer's Master.[3] He wishes for a copy of any of Caxton's printing in
England.
Went to buy some books. Found Miss Helmhoft, a fine woman. Had a long
confab. Bought more books than I wanted. Heard her spout German poetry
that I did not understand; and laughed at the oddity of her
gesticulation, which she took for laughter at the wit of a poet who was
describing the want of a shirt—and was highly pleased.
The French destroyed convents, and made of them public places for
walking.
Have been taken for servants, Frenchmen, merchants—never hardly for
English. Saw the Rhine last night—fine mass of water, wide as the Thames
some way below Blackwall; but no tide, and very deep. Town dirty, very
decayed, badly paved, worse lighted, and few marks of splendour and
comfort.
_May 10._—We have seen crucifixes for these four days at every turn,
some made of wood, some of stone, etc. Set off, after having defeated
the imposition of a postman, to Bonn; the scenery not anything
particular till we see the Seven Hills, a large amphitheatre on the
right, glimpses on the left of the Rhine, and the Seven Hills. Bonn at
last appeared, with its steeples, and on the neighbouring hills castles
and cots, towers, and (not) towns.[4]
I saw yesterday a picture of Rembrandt's with three lights in it very
well managed, at Wallraf's.
Saw R. Simmons' writing in the police-book at Bonn, and wrote to Soane.
[This was John, the son of Sir John Soane, founder of the Soane Museum
in Lincoln's Inn Fields.]
The innkeeper makes you put your name—whence—whither—profession and
age—every night. Rogues all of them, charging much.
_May 11._—We saw the first vines a little before entering Cologne some
days ago. We left Bonn at eleven, the town having nothing in particular.
The Seven Hills were the first that struck our sight on one of the
highest pinnacles in Drachenfels, now a mere ruin, formerly a castle of
which many a tale is told. There was by the roadside a monument raised
upon the spot where one noble brother killed another. Crucifixes all the
way. We had the river on one side, whence rose hills (not mountains)
cultivated halfway for vines—and the rest, nuts, shrubs, oak, etc.
Towers on pinnacles, in ruin; villages (with each its spire) built of
mud.
Cultivation in a high degree; no hedges, ground minutely divided into
beds rather than fields; women working in the fields; ox and horse
ploughing; oxen draw by their heads alone. Peasantry happy-looking and
content. Two points particularly struck us—the Drachenfels, and the view
at a distance before coming to Videnhar when the distant hills were
black with the rain. But the whole way it is one of the finest scenes, I
imagine, in the world. The large river with its massy swells and varied
towered banks.
We changed horses at Bemagne, and passed over a road first cut by
Aurelius, Theodoric, and Buonaparte. B[uonaparte]'s name is everywhere.
Who did this? N[apoleon] B[uonaparte].—Who that?—He. There is an
inscription to record this. Andernach—a fine entrance from Bemagne, with
its massy towers and square-spired church. From Andernach we passed on.
Saw on the other side Neuwied, a town owing its existence to the mere
toleration of religion. It is the finest and [most] flourishing we have
seen since Ghent and Antwerp. We saw the tomb of Hoche at a distance;
went to it. There was inscribed "The army of the Sambre and the Moselle
to its general-in-chief Hoche." The reliefs are torn off, the marble
slabs broken, and it is falling. But—
"Glory of the fallen brave
Shall men remember though forgot their grave,"
and the enemies may launch malicious darts against it. After Andernach
the Rhine loses much. The valley is wider, and the beautiful, after the
almost sublime, palls, and man is fastidious.
[The celebrated lyric by Byron introduced into _Childe Harold_, an
address to his half-sister, is stated farther on to have been written on
this very day. I cite the first stanza—
"The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine;
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scatter'd cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strew'd a scene which I should see
With double joy wert thou with me."]
About a mile from Coblentz we saw Marceau's tomb—too dark. Crossed the
bridge over the Moselle, entered Coblentz; asked of military, no pass;
went to inns, rascals. Went to the Trois Suisses—well served; fine view
of Ehrenbreitstein fortress in sight. When French besieged it, Marceau
was here at this inn, and the cannon-ball pierced it several
times.—There were 84 French officers here, when they would not believe
the Cossacks would pass; they had to fly as quick as horses could convey
them, for the C[ossacks], getting into boats, made their horses swim
across. C[ossack]s rascals—ate and drank and never paid. The general of
them mean into the bargain; for he sent the waiter in search of a louis
he had never dropped, and went off.—A flying bridge in face of me.
[Marceau died in 1796 of a wound received near Altenkirchen, at the age
of only twenty-seven. High honours were paid to his remains both by his
own army and by the Austrians whom he had been combating. Polidori
passes rapidly from the affair of Marceau to that of eighty-four French
officers and a body of Cossacks: but it is clear that these two matters
have no real connexion: the latter must relate to 1815 or 1814. Byron
devotes to Marceau two stanzas of _Childe Harold_—
"By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground,
There is a small and simple pyramid
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound.
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid,
Our enemy's: but let not that forbid
Honour to Marceau; o'er whose early tomb
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid,
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom,
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume.
"Brief, brave, and glorious, was his young career," etc.
General Hoche, although a separate monument to him was observed by Byron
and Polidori, was in fact buried in the same tomb with Marceau. He died
at Wetzlar in 1797, aged twenty-nine. It may be noticed that Byron (line
4) writes "heroes'," plural, followed by "enemy's," singular. "Heroes'"
must be intended for both Marceau and Hoche, and I suspect that
"enemy's" is a misprint for "enemies'."]
_May 12._—Got up. Looked at the fine view, and went to the bath,
which was at a maltster's—30 sous. Thence entered a Catholic
church—organ—children singing, which had a fine effect. A copy of
Rubens—lineal. Breakfasted.
Mounted a calèche, and went to Marceau's monument. The tomb of heroes
made into a certain place very much expressed the flickering flame of
fame. Thence to the Chartreuse: deserted, ruined, windowless, roofless,
and tenantless—with another in sight in the same state. Plenty of
reliefs on the roadside belonging to the Road to Calvary, an oratory on
the hillside, where were many peasants bowing in reverence. Thence to
the flying bridge managed by boats fastened in the stream with a rope,
and by the rudder.
Saw a motley group of peasants with their head-dresses of gold and
crimson or green with the steel pin. Cocked hat, blue coat and
stockinged heroes with a fork. Officers, artillery-men, etc.; crosses
given apparently with as profuse a hand to the soldiers as to the
roadside.
Went to Ehrenbreitstein. Everything broken by gunpowder; immense masses
of solid stone and mortar thrown fifty yards from their original
situation; ruined walls, gateways, and halls—nothing perfect. Splendid
views thence—Coblentz, Rhine, Moselle with its bridge, mountains,
cultivation, vines, wilderness, everything below my feet. Mounted again.
Passed the Rhine in a boat (rowed), looking very like the Otaheitan
canoes. Into the carriage—set off. Scenes increasing in sublimity. The
road raised from the side of the river without parapet: two precipices
coming to the road headlong. Indeed the river reaches foot to
foot—splendid, splendid, splendid. Saw the fort belonging once to
Muhrfrey, where he raised customs, and resisted in consequence sixty
cities. Arrived at St. Goar. At the first post saw the people in church;
went to hear them sing—fine.
_May 13._—Left St. Goar. Found scenery sublime to Bingen. Men with
cocked hats and great buckles hacking at the vines. The scenery after
Bingen gains in beauty what it loses in sublimity. Immense plain to the
mounts, with the Rhine _in medio_, covered with trees, woods, and
forests. Fine road to Mayence made by Nap[oleon]; his name has been
erased from the inscription on the column commemorative of the work.
Insolence of power!
Mayence a fine town, with a cathedral raised above it of red sandstone.
Bavarians, Austrians, and Prussians, all in the town—belonging to all.
The best town we have seen since Ghent.
[Mayence was at this date, locally, in the Grand Duchy of Hesse: but as
a fortress it appertained to the German Confederation, and was
garrisoned by Austrians, Prussians, and Hessians (hardly perhaps
Bavarians)].
One of our postillions blew a horn. Saw yesterday a beautiful
appearance—two rainbows, one on the top of trees where the colours of
the foliage pierced the rainbow-hues.
Arrived at Mayence at 6-1/2. Saw along the Rhine many fine old castles.
This below is what L[ord] B[yron] wrote to Mrs. L[eigh] some days ago:
written May 11 on Rhine-banks. See _Childe Harold_, from "The Castled
Crag of Drachenfels" to "Still sweeten more these Banks of Rhine."[5]
_May 14._—From Mayence, where I saw the spot where they said lately
stood the house where printing was invented; it had been pulled down by
the French. The gallery I could not see, because the keeper had taken it
into his head to make a promenade. Saw the cathedral, pierced at the
roof by bombs in the last siege the town underwent. The reliefs—some of
which were in a good style—many decapitated. There was a German marshal
who was represented as gravely putting forth his powdered head from
under a tombstone he has just lifted up—with an inscription saying "I am
here."
From Mayence we went to Mannheim through a fine country. Crossed the
Rhine on a bridge of boats. Taken very ill with a fever at
Mannheim—could not write my Journal.
_May 15._—Being a little recovered, set off. Fine alleys of
Lombardy-poplars and horse-chestnuts—neat villages. Entered Carlsruhe
through a grove of Scotch firs and other trees that had a fine effect.
Saw the Palace.
Entered the inn, and was very ill. Took ipecac and op. gr. 15. Headache,
vertigo, tendency to fainting, etc. Magnesia and lemon acid—a little
better, no effect.
Went a drive about the town. Saw the neatest town we have yet met with:
the only objection is the houses stuccoed white—bad for the eyes. Saw
the outside of the Palace, and went into the garden laid out in the
English manner.
Went home: dreadful headaches: ate some stewed apples; took some more
magn[esia] and acid; had no effect; lay down; got up after two hours.
Was just going out when L[ord] B[yron] came to take from my hand a
plated candlestick, to give me a brass one. Got on a few steps; fainted.
My fall brought the servants to me. Took 4 pills; going out again, when
L[ord] B[yron] made the servant put down the plated candlestick, to take
up a brass one; went to bed.
[This, as Polidori evidently thought, was an odd incident, not easily
accounted for. One cannot suppose that Byron simply aimed at humiliating
or mortifying his physician. There must have been a candle in each
candlestick; and it is conceivable that the candle in the brass one was
the longer, and therefore the more suitable for an invalid who might
have needed it throughout the night.]
Medicine had violent effect: better on the whole, though weak.
Just as we were going out I met Sir C. Hunter at my chamber-door, who
told me he had heard so bad an account of my positively dying that he
came to enquire how I found myself. I asked him in. He took care to tell
us he was a great friend of the Grand Duke, who had sent his groom of
the stole (he called it stool) in search of lodgings for the worthy
Mayor;[6] gave us a long sermon about rheumatism, routes, etc.; left us.
In the evening he sent in the _Guide du Voyageur en les pays de
l'Europe_, begging in return some of L[ord] B[yron's] poems.
Went out. Saw a church. Columns like firs—Corinthian, golden capitals:
loaded everywhere with gilt, perhaps tawdry, but fine-tawdry. The
environs are beautiful. Drove a great deal about: fine trees and fine
cultivation.
_May 18._—From Carlsruhe to Offenberg; much better. Slept halfway:
blinds down the other, so nothing to mention except fine trees, fine
cocked hats, fine women, and yellow-coated postillions.
_May 19._—Set off from Offenberg; saw some scenes that pleased me much;
hills and clouds upon them; woods with mists. Passed through Freiburg,
where we saw the steeple pervious to the top with trellis-work showing
the light, which had to my eyes a beautiful appearance.
I think Charles, when he said, "The German for his horse," remembered
the G[erman] postillions; for they talk to theirs, and the horses on
their part listen and seem to understand. The greater part of to-day I
have found the ladies in a strange costume of short wide red petticoats
with many folds, and a hat of straw as wide as a wheel. Arrived at
Krolzingen to sleep. Left Krolzingen: got to a hill. Fine view thence:
the Alps, the Rhine, the Jura mountains, and a fine plain before us—fine
country. Crossed the Rhine, and were in Switzerland. The town upon
unequal ground—some parts very high, and some low; the greater part very
narrow streets. After tea went to take a walk: went upon the Rhine
bridge—upon a hill in the town [Bâle presumably].
_May 21._—Went to see a panorama of Thun, the first Swiss one: crowded
foolishly with people, and too small. Saw a gallery that the artist had
formed. A fine Raphael, not his; a good Rembrandt, the first I saw
historical; a _Circumcision_; a head of the caricaturist David; two
heads of Divinity; a _Christ and Virgin_—mere pieces of flesh and
drapery. Went to a marchand d'estampes. Saw there _Nelson's Death_,
Chatham's ditto, and other pictures of England. _The Dance of Death_ has
been destroyed: but it was not Holbein's, but his restorer's. The
collection is dispersed, that once was here, of his paintings.
Agreed with a voiturier to take our carriages to Geneva in five days.
Set off. Country increases from hills to mountains with great beauty.
Passed through Lipstadt and came to ——. Went before supper to climb a
hill where we found a goatherd who could not understand the French that
asked for milk till it had the commentary, "We will pay for it." The
scene was very fine: to the right, beautiful; to the left, it had a
tendency to sublimity; on one side, hills covered to the top with trees;
on the other, mountains with bald pates. Came down. Found the servants
playing at bowls. They were obliged to run the bowls along a narrow
board to the men. Supper: read _Arabian Nights_; went to bed.
_May 22._—Left —— at 9; passed the Jura mountains, where we saw some
fine castellated scenery, and women ornamented strangely—amazingly short
petticoats, not below the knee, with black crape rays round their heads
that make them look very spidery. Soleure is a neat town with stone
fortifications, and a clean church with fountains before it. The houses
in this neighbourhood have a pleasing strange appearance on account of
the roofs, which slant out on every side a great way. Immense number of
Scotch firs—roads fine. Voituriers slow, and have eight francs of
drink-money a day, being two; which being too much according to the
_Guide du Voyageur en Europe_, where it is said 1-1/2 fr., we showed it
to our courier, who was in a passion. Came to ——, where we slept.
_May 23._—Left ——: got a sight of some fine Alpine snow-capped
mountains. Came to Berne; delightfully situated; beautiful streets with
arcades all their length. Dined there. Saw a splendidly beautiful view
coming down a hill, with hills covered with fir, ash, beech, and all the
catalogue of trees; Morat at the bottom, and the Jura mounts behind,
with snowy hair and cloudy night-caps. Arrived at Morat; neat with
arcades. Stopped at the Crown inn. All the way had debates whether
clouds were mountains, or mountains clouds.