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Views A-foot; Or, Europe Seen with Knapsack and Staff

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Title: Views A-foot; Or, Europe Seen with Knapsack and Staff

Author: Bayard Taylor


        
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                            VIEWS A-FOOT;

                                  OR

                 EUROPE SEEN WITH KNAPSACK AND STAFF.

                                  BY

                          J. BAYARD TAYLOR.

                    WITH A PREFACE BY N.P. WILLIS.


                 "Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,
                    And merrily hent the stile-a;
                   A merry heart goes all the day,
                     Your sad tires in a mile-a."

                                      _Winter's Tale_.



                            IN TWO PARTS.

                               PART I.







      Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by

                          WILEY AND PUTNAM,

 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
                  the Southern District of New York.








PREFACE.

BY N.P. WILLIS.


The book which follows, requires little or no introduction. It tells its
own story, and tells it well. The interest in it, which induces the
writer of this preface to be its usher to the public, is simply that of
his having chanced to be among the first appreciators of the author's
talent--an appreciation that has since been so more than justified, that
the writer is proud to call the author of this book his friend, and
bespeak attention to the peculiar energies he has displayed in travel
and authorship. Mr. Taylor's poetical productions while he was still a
printer's apprentice, made a strong impression on the writer's mind, and
he gave them their due of praise accordingly in the newspaper of which
he was then Editor. Some correspondence ensued, and other fine pieces of
writing strengthened the admiration thus awakened, and when the young
poet-mechanic came to the city, and modestly announced the bold
determination of visiting foreign lands--with means, if they could be
got, but with reliance on manual labor if they could not--the writer,
understanding the man, and seeing how capable he was of carrying out his
manly and enthusiastic scheme, and that it would work uncorruptingly for
the improvement of his mind and character, counselled him to go. He
went--his book tells how successfully for all his purposes. He has
returned, after two years' absence, with large knowledge of the world,
of men and of manners, with a pure, invigorated and healthy mind, having
passed all this time abroad, and seen and accomplished more than most
travelers, _at the cost of only $500, and this sum earned on the road_.
This, in the writer's opinion, is a fine instance of character and
energy. The book, which records the difficulties and struggles of a
printer's apprentice achieving this, must be interesting to Americans.
The pride of the country is in its self-made men.

What Mr. Taylor is, or what he is yet to become, cannot well be touched
upon here, but that it will yet be written, and on a bright page, is, of
course, his own confident hope and the writer's confident expectation.
The book, which is the record of his progress thus far, is now cordially
commended to the public, and it will be read, perhaps, more
understandingly after a perusal of the following outline sketch of the
difficulties the author had to contend with--a letter written in reply
to a note from the writer asking for some of the particulars of his
start and progress:

  _To. Mr. Willis_,--

  MY DEAR SIR:--

  Nearly three years ago (in the beginning of 1844) the time for
  accomplishing my long cherished desire of visiting Europe, seemed to
  arrive. A cousin, who had long intended going abroad, was to leave
  in a few months, and although I was then surrounded by the most
  unfavorable circumstances, I determined to accompany him, at
  whatever hazard. I had still two years of my apprenticeship to serve
  out; I was entirely without means, and my project was strongly
  opposed by my friends, as something too visionary to be
  practicable. A short time before, Mr.  Griswold advised me to
  publish a small volume of youthful effusions, a few of which had
  appeared in Graham's Magazine, which he then edited; the idea struck
  me, that by so doing, I might, if they should be favorably noticed,
  obtain a newspaper correspondence which would enable me to make the
  start.

  The volume was published; a sufficient number was sold among my
  friends to defray all expenses, and it was charitably noticed by the
  Philadelphia press. Some literary friends, to whom I confided my
  design, promised to aid me with their influence. Trusting to this, I
  made arrangements for leaving the printing-office, which I succeeded
  in doing, by making a certain compensation for the remainder of my
  time. I was now fully confident of success, feeling satisfied, that
  a strong will would always make itself a way. After many
  applications to different editors and as many disappointments, I
  finally succeeded, about two weeks before our departure, in making a
  partial engagement.  Mr. Chandler of the United States Gazette and
  Mr. Patterson of the Saturday Evening Post, paid me fifty dollars,
  each, in advance for twelve letters, to be sent from Europe, with
  the probability of accepting more, if these should be
  satisfactory. This, with a sum which I received from Mr. Graham for
  poems published in his Magazine, put me in possession of about a
  hundred and forty dollars, with which I determined to start,
  trusting to future remuneration for letters, or if that should fail,
  to my skill as a compositor, for I supposed I could at the worst,
  work my way through Europe, like the German hand werker.  Thus, with
  another companion, we left home, an enthusiastic and hopeful trio.

  I need not trace our wanderings at length. After eight months of
  suspense, during which time my small means were entirely exhausted,
  I received a letter from Mr. Patterson, continuing the engagement
  for the remainder of my stay, with a remittance of one hundred
  dollars from himself and Mr. Graham. Other remittances, received
  from time to time, enabled me to stay abroad two years, during which
  I traveled on foot upwards of three thousand miles in Germany,
  Switzerland, Italy and France. I was obliged, however, to use the
  strictest economy--to live on pilgrim fare, and do penance in rain
  and cold. My means several times entirely failed; but I was always
  relieved from serious difficulty through unlooked-for friends, or
  some unexpected turn of fortune. At Rome, owing to the expenses and
  embarrassments of traveling in Italy, I was obliged to give up my
  original design of proceeding on foot to Naples and across the
  peninsula to Otranto, sailing thence to Corfu and making a
  pedestrian journey through Albania and Greece. But the main object
  of my pilgrimage is accomplished; I visited the principal places of
  interest in Europe, enjoyed her grandest scenery and the marvels of
  ancient and modern art, became familiar with other languages, other
  customs and other institutions, and returned home, after two years'
  absence, willing now, with satisfied curiosity, to resume life in
  America.

  Yours, most sincerely,

  J. BAYARD TAYLOR.




CONTENTS.

I.--The Voyage

II.--A Day in Ireland

III.--Ben Lomond and the Highland Lakes

IV.--The Burns' Festival

V.--Walk from Edinburgh over the Border and arrival at London

VI.--Some of the "Sights" of London

VII.--Flight through Belgium

VIII.--The Rhine to Heidelberg

IX.--Scenes in and around Heidelberg

X.--A Walk through the Odenwald

XI.--Scenes in Frankfort--An American Composer--The Poet Freiligrath

XII.--A week among the Students

XIII.--Christmas and New Year in Germany

XIV.--Winter in Frankfort--A Fair, an Inundation and a Fire

XV.--The Dead and the Deaf--Mendelssohn the Composer

XVI.--Journey on Foot from Frankfort to Cassel

XVII.--Adventures among the Hartz

XVIII.--Notes in Leipsic and Dresden

XIX.--Rambles in the Saxon Switzerland

XX.--Scenes in Prague

XXI.--Journey through Eastern Bohemia and Moravia to the Danube

XXII.--Vienna

XXIII.--Up the Danube

XXIV.--The Unknown Student

XXV.--The Austrian Alps

XXVI.--Munich

XXVII.--Through Wurtemberg to Heidelberg

XXVIII.--Freiburg and the Black Forest

XXIX.--People and Places in Eastern Switzerland

XXX.--Passage of the St Gothard and descent into Italy

XXXI.--Milan

XXXII.--Walk from Milan to Genoa

XXXIII.--Scenes in Genoa, Leghorn and Pisa

XXXIV.--Florence and its Galleries

XXXV.--A Pilgrimage to Vallombrosa

XXXVI.--Walk to Siena and Pratolino--Incidents in Florence

XXXVII.--American Art in Florence

XXXVIII.--An Adventure on the Great St. Bernard--Walks around Florence

XXXIX.--Winter Traveling among the Appenines

XL.--Rome

XLI.--Tivoli and the Roman Campagna

XLII.--Tivoli and the Roman Campagna (_continued_)

XLIII.--Pilgrimage to Vaucluse and Journey up the Rhone

XLIV.--Traveling in Burgundy--The Miseries of a Country Diligence

XLV.--Poetical Scenes in Paris

XLVI.--A Glimpse of Normandy

XLVII.--Lockhart, Bernard Barton and Croly--London Chimes and Greenwich
Fair

XLVIII.--Homeward Bound--Conclusion




TO

FRANK TAYLOR,

THESE RECORDS OF THE PILGRIMAGE,

WHOSE TOILS AND ENJOYMENTS WE HAVE SHARED TOGETHER,

ARE

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,

BY

HIS RELATIVE AND FRIEND.




VIEWS A-FOOT.





CHAPTER I.


THE VOYAGE.

An enthusiastic desire of visiting the Old World haunted me from early
childhood. I cherished a presentiment, amounting almost to belief, that
I should one day behold the scenes, among which my fancy had so long
wandered. The want of means was for a time a serious check to my
anticipations; but I could not content myself to wait until I had slowly
accumulated so large a sum as tourists usually spend on their travels.
It seemed to me that a more humble method of seeing the world would
place within the power of almost every one, what has hitherto been
deemed the privilege of the wealthy few. Such a journey, too, offered
advantages for becoming acquainted with people as well as places--for
observing more intimately, the effect of government and education, and
more than all, for the study of human nature, in every condition of
life. At length I became possessed of a small sum, to be earned by
letters descriptive of things abroad, and on the 1st of July, 1844, set
sail for Liverpool, with a relative and friend, whose circumstances were
somewhat similar to mine. How far the success of the experiment and the
object of our long pilgrimage were attained, these pages will show.

       *       *       *       *       *

    LAND AND SEA.

    There are springs that rise in the greenwood's heart,
      Where its leafy glooms are cast,
    And the branches droop in the solemn air,
      Unstirred by the sweeping blast.
    There are hills that lie in the noontide calm,
      On the lap of the quiet earth;
    And, crown'd with gold by the ripened grain,
      Surround my place of birth.

    Dearer are these to my pining heart,
      Than the beauty of the deep,
    When the moonlight falls in a bolt of gold
      On the waves that heave in sleep.
    The rustling talk of the clustered leaves
      That shade a well-known door,
    Is sweeter far than the booming sound
      Of the breaking wave before.

    When night on the ocean sinks calmly down,
      I climb the vessel's prow,
    Where the foam-wreath glows with its phosphor light,
      Like a crown on a sea-nymph's brow.
    Above, through the lattice of rope and spar,
      The stars in their beauty burn;
    And the spirit longs to ride their beams,
      And back to the loved return.

    They say that the sunset is brighter far
      When it sinks behind the sea;
    That the stars shine out with a softer fire--
      Not thus they seem to me.
    Dearer the flush of the crimson west
      Through trees that my childhood knew.
    When the star of love with its silver lamp,
      Lights the homes of the tried and true!

Could one live on the sense of beauty alone, exempt from the necessity
of "creature comforts," a sea-voyage would be delightful. To the
landsman there is sublimity in the wild and ever-varied forms of the
ocean; they fill his mind with living images of a glory he had only
dreamed of before. But we would have been willing to forego all this and
get back the comforts of the shore. At New York we took passage in the
second cabin of the Oxford, which, as usual in the Liverpool packets,
consisted of a small space amid-ships, fitted up with rough, temporary
berths. The communication with the deck is by an open hatchway, which in
storms is closed down. As the passengers in this cabin furnish their
own provisions, we made ourselves acquainted with the contents of
certain storehouses on Pine St. wharf, and purchased a large box of
provisions, which was stowed away under our narrow berth. The cook, for
a small compensation, took on himself the charge of preparing them, and
we made ourselves as comfortable as the close, dark dwelling would
admit.

As we approached the Banks of Newfoundland, a gale arose, which for two
days and nights carried us on, careering Mazeppa-like, up hill and down.
The sea looked truly magnificent, although the sailors told us it was
nothing at all in comparison with the storms of winter. But we were not
permitted to pass the Banks, without experiencing one of the calms, for
which that neighborhood is noted. For three days we lay almost
motionless on the glassy water, sometimes surrounded by large flocks of
sea-gulls. The weed brought by the gulf stream, floated around--some
branches we fished up, were full of beautiful little shells. Once a
large school of black-fish came around the vessel, and the carpenter
climbed down on the fore-chains, with a harpoon to strike one. Scarcely
had he taken his position, when they all darted off in a straight line,
through the water, and were soon out of sight. He said they smelt the
harpoon.

We congratulated ourselves on having reached the Banks in seven days, as
it is considered the longest third-part of the passage. But the hopes of
reaching Liverpool in twenty days, were soon overthrown. A succession of
southerly winds drove the vessel as far north as lat. 55 deg., without
bringing us much nearer our destination. It was extremely cold, for we
were but five degrees south of the latitude of Greenland, and the long
northern twilights came on. The last glow of the evening twilight had
scarcely faded, before the first glimmering of dawn appeared. I found it
extremely easy to read, at 10 P.M., on the deck.

We had much diversion on board from a company of Iowa Indians, under the
celebrated chief "White Cloud," who are on a visit to England. They are
truly a wild enough looking company, and helped not a little to relieve
the tedium of the passage. The chief was a very grave and dignified
person, but some of the braves were merry enough. One day we had a
war-dance on deck, which was a most ludicrous scene. The chief and two
braves sat upon the deck, beating violently a small drum and howling
forth their war-song, while the others in full dress, painted in a
grotesque style, leaped about, brandishing tomahawks and spears, and
terminating each dance with a terrific yell. Some of the men are very
fine-looking, but the squaws are all ugly. They occupied part of the
second cabin, separated only by a board partition from our room. This
proximity was any thing but agreeable. They kept us awake more than half
the night, by singing and howling in the most dolorous manner, with the
accompaniment of slapping their hands violently on their bare breasts.
We tried an opposition, and a young German student, who was returning
home after two years' travel in America, made our room ring with the
chorus from Der Freischütz--but in vain. They _would_ howl and beat
their breasts, and the pappoose _would_ squall. Any loss of temper is
therefore not to be wondered at, when I state that I could scarcely turn
in my berth, much less stretch myself out; my cramped limbs alone drove
off half the night's slumber.

It was a pleasure, at least, to gaze on their strong athletic frames.
Their massive chests and powerful limbs put to shame our dwindled
proportions. One old man, in particular, who seemed the patriarch of the
band, used to stand for hours on the quarter deck, sublime and
motionless as a statue of Jupiter. An interesting incident occurred
during the calm of which I spoke. They began to be fearful we were
doomed to remain there forever, unless the spirits were invoked for a
favorable wind. Accordingly the prophet lit his pipe and smoked with
great deliberation, muttering all the while in a low voice. Then, having
obtained a bottle of beer from the captain, he poured it solemnly over
the stern of the vessel into the sea. There were some indications of
wind at the time, and accordingly the next morning we had a fine breeze,
which the Iowas attributed solely to the Prophet's incantation and
Eolus' love of beer.

After a succession of calms and adverse winds, on the 25th we were off
the Hebrides, and though not within sight of land, the southern winds
came to us strongly freighted with the "meadow freshness" of the Irish
bogs, so we could at least _smell_ it. That day the wind became more
favorable, and the next morning we were all roused out of our berths by
sunrise, at the long wished-for cry of "land!" Just under the golden
flood of light that streamed through the morning clouds, lay afar-off
and indistinct the crags of an island, with the top of a light-house
visible at one extremity. To the south of it, and barely
distinguishable, so completely was it blended in hue with the veiling
cloud, loomed up a lofty mountain. I shall never forget the sight! As we
drew nearer, the dim and soft outline it first wore, was broken into a
range of crags, with lofty precipices jutting out to the sea, and
sloping off inland. The white wall of the light-house shone in the
morning's light, and the foam of the breakers dashed up at the foot of
the airy cliffs. It was worth all the troubles of a long voyage, to feel
the glorious excitement which this herald of new scenes and new
adventures created. The light-house was on Tory Island, on the
north-western coast of Ireland. The Captain decided on taking the North
Channel, for, although rarely done, it was in our case nearer, and is
certainly more interesting than the usual route.

We passed the Island of Ennistrahul, near the entrance of Londonderry
harbor, and at sunset saw in the distance the islands of Islay and Jura,
off the Scottish coast. Next morning we were close to the promontory of
Fairhead, a bold, precipitous headland, like some of the Palisades on
the Hudson; the highlands of the Mull of Cantire were on the opposite
side of the Channel, and the wind being ahead, we tacked from shore to
shore, running so near the Irish coast, that we could see the little
thatched huts, stacks of peat, and even rows of potatoes in the fields.
It was a panorama: the view extended for miles inland, and the fields of
different colored grain were spread out before us, a brilliant mosaic.
Towards evening we passed Ailsa Crag, the sea-bird's home, within sight,
though about twenty miles distant.

On Sunday, the 28th, we passed the lofty headland of the Mull of
Galloway and entered the Irish Sea. Here there was an occurrence of an
impressive nature. A woman, belonging to the steerage, who had been ill
the whole passage, died the morning before. She appeared to be of a very
avaricious disposition, though this might indeed have been the result of
self-denial, practised through filial affection. In the morning she was
speechless, and while they were endeavoring to persuade her to give up
her keys to the captain, died. In her pocket were found two parcels,
containing forty sovereigns, sewed up with the most miserly care. It was
ascertained she had a widowed mother in the north of Ireland, and
judging her money could be better applied than to paying for a funeral
on shore, the captain gave orders for committing the body to the waves.
It rained drearily as her corpse, covered with starred bunting, was held
at the gangway while the captain read the funeral service; then one
plunge was heard, and a white object, flashed up through the dark
waters, as the ship passed on.

In the afternoon we passed the Isle of Man, having a beautiful view of
the Calf, with a white stream tumbling down the rocks into the sea; and
at night saw the sun set behind the mountains of Wales. About midnight,
the pilot came on board, and soon after sunrise I saw the distant spires
of Liverpool. The Welsh coast was studded with windmills, all in motion,
and the harbor spotted with buoys, bells and floating lights. How
delightful it was to behold the green trees on the banks of the Mersey,
and to know that in a few hours we should be on land! About 11 o'clock
we came to anchor in the channel of the Mersey, near the docks, and
after much noise, bustle and confusion, were transferred, with our
baggage, to a small steamboat, giving a parting cheer to the Iowas, who
remained on board. On landing, I stood a moment to observe the scene.
The baggage-wagons, drawn by horses, mules and donkeys, were
extraordinary; men were going about crying "_the celebrated Tralorum
gingerbread!_" which they carried in baskets; and a boy in the
University dress, with long blue gown and yellow knee-breeches, was
running to the wharf to look at the Indians.

At last the carts were all loaded, the word was given to start, and
then, what a scene ensued! Away went the mules, the horses and the
donkeys; away ran men and women and children, carrying chairs and
trunks, and boxes and bedding. The wind was blowing, and the dust
whirled up as they dashed helter-skelter through the gate and started
off on a hot race, down the dock to the depot. Two wagons came together,
one of which was overturned, scattering the broken boxes of a Scotch
family over the pavement; but while the poor woman was crying over her
loss, the tide swept on, scarcely taking time to glance at the mishap.

Our luggage was "passed" with little trouble; the officer merely opening
the trunks and pressing his hands on the top. Even some American
reprints of English works which my companion carried, and feared would
be taken from him, were passed over without a word. I was agreeably
surprised at this, as from the accounts of some travellers, I had been
led to fear horrible things of custom-houses. This over, we took a
stroll about the city. I was first struck by seeing so many people
walking in the middle of the streets, and so many gentlemen going about
with pinks stuck in their button-holes. Then, the houses being all built
of brown granite or dark brick, gives the town a sombre appearance,
which the sunshine (when there is any) cannot dispel. Of Liverpool we
saw little. Before the twilight had wholly faded, we were again tossing
on the rough waves of the Irish Sea.




CHAPTER II.

A DAY IN IRELAND.


On calling at the steamboat office in Liverpool, to take passage to Port
Rush, we found that the fare in the fore cabin was but two shillings and
a half, while in the chief cabin it was six times as much. As I had
started to make the tour of all Europe with a sum little higher than is
sometimes given for the mere passage to and fro, there was no
alternative--the twenty-four hours' discomfort could be more easily
endured than the expense, and as I expected to encounter many hardships,
it was best to make a beginning. I had crossed the ocean with tolerable
comfort for twenty-four dollars, and was determined to try whether
England, where I had been told it was almost impossible to breathe
without expense, might not also be seen by one of limited means.

The fore _cabin_ was merely a bare room, with a bench along one side,
which was occupied by half a dozen Irishmen in knee-breeches and heavy
brogans. As we passed out of the Clarence Dock at 10 P.M., I went below
and managed to get a seat on one end of the bench, where I spent the
night in sleepless misery. The Irish bestowed themselves about the floor
as they best could, for there was no light, and very soon the Morphean
deepness of their breathing gave token of blissful unconsciousness.

The next morning was misty and rainy, but I preferred walking the deck
and drying myself occasionally beside the chimney, to sitting in the
dismal room below. We passed the Isle of Man, and through the whole
forenoon were tossed about very disagreeably in the North Channel. In
the afternoon we stopped at Larne, a little antiquated village, not far
from Belfast, at the head of a crooked arm of the sea. There is an old
ivy-grown tower near, and high green mountains rise up around. After
leaving it, we had a beautiful panoramic view of the northern coast.
Many of the precipices are of the same formation as the Causeway;
Fairhead, a promontory of this kind, is grand in the extreme. The
perpendicular face of fluted rock is about three hundred feet in height,
and towering up sublimely from the water, seemed almost to overhang our
heads.

My companion compared it to Niagara Falls petrified; and I think the
simile very striking. It is like a cataract falling in huge waves, in
some places leaping out from a projecting rock, in others descending in
an unbroken sheet.

We passed the Giant's Causeway after dark, and about eleven o'clock
reached the harbor of Port Rush, where, after stumbling up a strange old
street, in the dark, we found a little inn, and soon forgot the Irish
Coast and everything else.

In the morning when we arose it was raining, with little prospect of
fair weather, but having expected nothing better, we set out on foot for
the Causeway. The rain, however, soon came down in torrents, and we were
obliged to take shelter in a cabin by the road-side. The whole house
consisted of one room, with bare walls and roof, and earthen floor,
while a window of three or four panes supplied the light. A fire of peat
was burning on the hearth, and their breakfast, of potatoes alone, stood
on the table. The occupants received us with rude but genuine
hospitality, giving us the only seats in the room to sit upon; except a
rickety bedstead that stood in one corner and a small table, there was
no other furniture in the house. The man appeared rather intelligent,
and although he complained of the hardness of their lot, had no sympathy
with O'Connell or the Repeal movement.

We left this miserable hut, as soon as it ceased raining--and, though
there were many cabins along the road, few were better than this. At
length, after passing the walls of an old church, in the midst of older
tombs, we saw the roofless towers of Dunluce Castle, on the sea-shore.
It stands on an isolated rook, rising perpendicularly two hundred feet
above the sea, and connected with the cliffs of the mainland by a narrow
arch of masonry. On the summit of the cliffs were the remains of the
buildings where the ancient lords kept their vassals. An old man, who
takes care of it for Lord Antrim, on whose property it is situated,
showed us the way down to the castle. We walked across the narrow arch,
entered the ruined hall, and looked down on the roaring sea below. It
still rained, the wind swept furiously through the decaying arches of
the banqueting hall and waved the long grass on the desolate
battlements. Far below, the sea foamed white on the breakers and sent up
an unceasing boom. It was the most mournful and desolate picture I ever
beheld. There were some low dungeons yet entire, and rude stairways,
where, by stooping down, I could ascend nearly to the top of one of the
towers, and look out on the wild scenery of the coast.

Going back, I found a way down the cliff, to the mouth of a cavern in
the rock, which extends under the whole castle to the sea. Sliding down
a heap of sand and stones, I stood under an arch eighty feet high; in
front the breakers dashed into the entrance, flinging the spray half-way
to the roof, while the sound rang up through the arches like thunder. It
seemed to me the haunt of the old Norsemen's sea-gods!

We left the road near Dunluce and walked along the smooth beach to the
cliffs that surround the Causeway. Here we obtained a guide, and
descended to one of the caves which can be entered from the shore.
Opposite the entrance a bare rock called Sea Gull Isle, rises out of the
sea like a church steeple. The roof at first was low, but we shortly
came to a branch that opened on the sea, where the arch was forty-six
feet in height. The breakers dashed far into the cave, and flocks of
sea-birds circled round its mouth. The sound of a gun was like a
deafening peal of thunder, crashing from arch to arch till it rolled out
of the cavern.

On the top of the hill a splendid hotel is erected for visitors to the
Causeway; after passing this we descended to the base of the cliffs,
which are here upwards of four hundred feet high, and soon began to
find, in the columnar formation of the rocks, indications of our
approach. The guide pointed out some columns which appeared to have been
melted and run together, from which Sir Humphrey Davy attributed the
formation of the Causeway to the action of fire. Near this is the
Giant's Well, a spring of the purest water, the bottom formed by three
perfect hexagons, and the sides of regular columns. One of us observing
that no giant had ever drunk from it, the old man answered--"Perhaps
not: but it was made by a giant--God Almighty!"

From the well, the Causeway commences--a mass of columns, from
triangular to octagonal, lying in compact forms, and extending into the
sea. I was somewhat disappointed at first, having supposed the Causeway
to be of great height, but I found the Giant's Loom, which is the
highest part of it, to be but about fifty feet from the water. The
singular appearance of the columns and the many strange forms which they
assume, render it nevertheless, an object of the greatest interest.
Walking out on the rocks we came to the Ladies' Chair, the seat, back,
sides and footstool, being all regularly formed by the broken columns.
The guide said that any lady who would take three drinks from the
Giant's Well, then sit in this chair and think of any gentleman for whom
she had a preference, would be married before a twelvemonth. I asked him
if it would answer as well for gentlemen, for by a wonderful coincidence
we had each drank three times at the well! He said it would, and thought
he was confirming his statement.

A cluster of columns about half-way up the cliff is called the Giant's
Organ--from its very striking resemblance to that instrument, and a
single rock, worn by the waves into the shape of a rude seat, is his
chair. A mile or two further along the coast, two cliffs project from
the range, leaving a vast semicircular space between, which, from its
resemblance to the old Roman theatres, was appropriated for that purpose
by the Giant. Halfway down the crags are two or three pinnacles of rock,
called the Chimneys, and the stumps of several others can be seen,
which, it is said, were shot off by a vessel belonging to the Spanish
Armada, in mistake for the towers of Dunluce Castle. The vessel was
afterwards wrecked in the bay below, which has ever since been called
Spanish Bay, and in calm weather the wreck may be still seen. Many of
the columns of the Causeway have been carried off and sold as pillars
for mantels--and though a notice is put up threatening any one with the
rigor of the law, depredations are occasionally made.

Returning, we left the road at Dunluce, and took a path which led along
the summit of the cliffs. The twilight was gathering, and the wind blew
with perfect fury, which, combined with the black and stormy sky, gave
the coast an air of extreme wildness. All at once, as we followed the
winding path, the crags appeared to open before us, disclosing a yawning
chasm, down which a large stream, falling in an unbroken sheet, was lost
in the gloom below. Witnessed in a calm day, there may perhaps be
nothing striking about it, but coming upon us at once, through the gloom
of twilight, with the sea thundering below and a scowling sky above, it
was absolutely startling.

The path at last wound, with many a steep and slippery bend, down the
almost perpendicular crags, to the shore, at the foot of a giant
isolated rock, having a natural arch through it, eighty feet in height.
We followed the narrow strip of beach, having the bare crags on one side
and a line of foaming breakers on the other. It soon grew dark; a
furious storm came up and swept like a hurricane along the shore. I then
understood what Horne means by "the lengthening javelins of the blast,"
for every drop seemed to strike with the force of an arrow, and our
clothes were soon pierced in every part.

Then we went up among the sand hills, and lost each other in the
darkness, when, after stumbling about among the gullies for half an
hour, shouting for my companions, I found the road and heard my call
answered; but it happened to be two Irishmen, who came up and said--"And
is it another gintleman ye're callin' for? we heard some one cryin', and
didn't know but somebody might be kilt."

Finally, about eleven o'clock we all arrived at the inn, dripping with
rain, and before a warm fire concluded the adventures of our day in
Ireland.




CHAPTER III.

BEN LOMOND AND THE HIGHLAND LAKES.


The steamboat Londonderry called the next day at Port Rush, and we left
in her for Greenock. We ran down the Irish coast, past Dunluce Castle
and the Causeway; the Giant's organ was very plainly visible, and the
winds were strong enough to have sounded a storm-song upon it. Farther
on we had a distant view of Carrick-a-Rede, a precipitous rock,
separated by a yawning chasm from the shore, frequented by the catchers
of sea-birds. A narrow swinging bridge, which is only passable in calm
weather, crosses this chasm, 200 feet above the water.

The deck of the steamer was crowded with Irish, and certainly gave no
very favorable impression of the condition of the peasantry of Ireland.
On many of their countenances there was scarcely a mark of
intelligence--they were a most brutalized and degraded company of
beings. Many of them were in a beastly state of intoxication, which,
from the contents of some of their pockets, was not likely to decrease.
As evening drew on, two or three began singing and the others collected
in groups around them. One of them who sang with great spirit, was
loudly applauded, and poured forth song after song, of the most rude and
unrefined character.

We took a deck passage for three shillings, in preference to paying
twenty for the cabin, and having secured a vacant place near the
chimney, kept it during the whole passage. The waves were as rough in
the Channel as I ever saw them in the Atlantic, and our boat was tossed
about like a plaything. By keeping still we escaped sickness, but we
could not avoid the sight of the miserable beings who filled the deck.
Many of them spoke in the Irish tongue, and our German friend (the
student whom I have already mentioned) noticed in many of the words a
resemblance to his mother tongue. I procured a bowl of soup from the
steward, but as I was not able to eat it, I gave it to an old man whose
hungry look and wistful eyes convinced me it would not be lost on him.
He swallowed it with ravenous avidity, together with a crust of bread,
which was all I had to give him, and seemed for the time as happy and
cheerful as if all his earthly wants were satisfied.

We passed by the foot of Goat Fell, a lofty mountain on the island of
Arran, and sped on through the darkness past the hills of Bute, till we
entered the Clyde. We arrived at Greenock at one o'clock at night, and
walking at random through its silent streets, met a policeman, whom we
asked to show us where we might find lodgings. He took my cousin and
myself to the house of a poor widow, who had a spare bed which she let
to strangers, and then conducted our comrade and the German to another
lodging-place.

An Irish strolling musician, who was on board the Dumbarton boat,
commenced playing soon after we left Greenock, and, to my surprise,
struck at once into "Hail Columbia." Then he gave "the Exile of Erin,"
with the most touching sweetness; and I noticed that always after
playing any air that was desired of him, he would invariably return to
the sad lament, which I never heard executed with more feeling. It might
have been the mild, soft air of the morning, or some peculiar mood of
mind that influenced me, but I have been far less affected by music
which would be considered immeasurably superior to his. I had been
thinking of America, and going up to the old man, I quietly bade him
play "Home." It thrilled with a painful delight that almost brought
tears to my eyes. My companion started as the sweet melody arose, and
turned towards me, his face kindling with emotion.

Dumbarton Rock rose higher and higher as we went up the Clyde, and
before we arrived at the town I hailed the dim outline of Ben Lomond,
rising far off among the highlands. The town is at the head of a small
inlet, a short distance from the rock, which was once surrounded by
water. We went immediately to the Castle. The rock is nearly 500 feet
high, and from its position and great strength as a fortress, has been
called the Gibraltar of Scotland. The top is surrounded with
battlements, and the armory and barracks stand in a cleft between the
two peaks. We passed down a green lane, around the rock, and entered the
castle on the south side. A soldier conducted us through a narrow cleft,
overhung with crags, to the summit. Here, from the remains of a round
building, called Wallace's Tower, from its having been used as a
look-out station by that chieftain, we had a beautiful view of the whole
of Leven Vale to Loch Lomond, Ben Lomond and the Highlands, and on the
other hand, the Clyde and the Isle of Bute. In the soft and still
balminess of the morning, it was a lovely picture. In the armory, I
lifted the sword of Wallace, a two-handed weapon, five feet in length.
We were also shown a Lochaber battle-axe, from Bannockburn, and several
ancient claymores.

We lingered long upon the summit before we forsook the stern fortress
for the sweet vale spread out before us. It was indeed a glorious walk,
from Dumbarton to Loch Lomond, through this enchanting valley. The air
was mild and clear; a few light clouds occasionally crossing the sun,
chequered the hills with sun and shade. I have as yet seen nothing that
in pastoral beauty can compare with its glassy winding stream, its mossy
old woods, and guarding hills--and the ivy-grown, castellated towers
embosomed in its forests, or standing on the banks of the Leven--the
purest of rivers. At a little village called Renton, is a monument to
Smollett, but the inhabitants seem to neglect his memory, as one of the
tablets on the pedestal is broken and half fallen away. Further up the
vale a farmer showed us an old mansion in the midst of a group of trees
on the bank of the Leven, which he said belonged to Smollett--or
Roderick Random, as he called him. Two or three old pear trees were
still standing where the garden had formerly been, under which he was
accustomed to play in his childhood.

At the head of Leven Vale, we set off in the steamer "Water Witch" over
the crystal waters of Loch Lomond, passing Inch Murrin, the deer-park of
the Duke of Montrose, and Inch Caillach,

    ----"where gray pines wave
    Their shadows o'er Clan Alpine's grave."

Under the clear sky and golden light of the declining sun, we entered
the Highlands, and heard on every side names we had learned long ago in
the lays of Scott. Here were Glen Fruin and Bannochar, Ross Dhu and the
pass of Beal-ma-na. Further still, we passed Rob Roy's rock, where the
lake is locked in by lofty mountains. The cone-like peak of Ben Lomond
rises far above on the right, Ben Voirlich stands in front, and the
jagged crest of Ben Arthur looks over the shoulders of the western
hills. A Scotchman on board pointed out to us the remarkable places, and
related many interesting legends. Above Inversnaid, where there is a
beautiful waterfall, leaping over the rock and glancing out from the
overhanging birches, we passed McFarland's Island, concerning the origin
of which name, he gave a history. A nephew of one of the old Earls of
Lennox, the ruins of whose castle we saw on Inch Murrin, having murdered
his uncle's cook in a quarrel, was obliged to flee for his life.
Returning after many years, he built a castle upon this island, which
was always after named, on account of his exile, _Far-land_. On a
precipitous point above Inversnaid, are two caves in the rock; one near
the water is called Rob Roy's, though the guides generally call it
Bruce's also, to avoid trouble, as the real Bruce's Cave is high up the
hill. It is so called, because Bruce hid there one night, from the
pursuit of his enemies. It is related that a mountain goat, who used
this probably for a sleeping place, entered, trod on his mantle, and
aroused him. Thinking his enemies were upon him, he sprang up, and saw
the silly animal before him. In token of gratitude for this agreeable
surprise, when he became king, a law was passed, declaring goats free
throughout all Scotland--unpunishable for whatever trespass they might
commit, and the legend further says, that not having been repealed, it
continues in force at the present day.

On the opposite shore of the lake is a large rock, called "Bull's Rock,"
having a door in the side, with a stairway cut through the interior to a
pulpit on the top, from which the pastor at Arroquhar preaches a monthly
discourse. The Gaelic legend of the rock is, that it once stood near the
summit of the mountain above, and was very nearly balanced on the edge
of a precipice. Two wild bulls, fighting violently, dashed with great
force against the rock, which, being thrown from its balance, was
tumbled down the side of the mountain, till it reached its present
position. The Scot was speaking with great bitterness of the betrayal of
Wallace, when I asked him if it was still considered an insult to turn a
loaf of bread bottom upwards in the presence of a Montieth. "Indeed it
is, sir," said he, "I have often done it myself."

Until last May, travellers were taken no higher up the lake than Rob
Roy's Cave, but another boat having commenced running, they can now go
beyond Loch Lomond, two miles up Glen Falloch, to the Inn of Inverarnan,
thereby visiting some of the finest scenery in that part of the
Highlands. It was ludicrous, however, to see the steamboat on a river
scarcely wider than herself, in a little valley, hemmed in completely
with lofty mountains. She went on, however, pushing aside the thickets
which lined both banks, and I almost began to think she was going to
take the shore for it, when we came to a place widened out for her to be
turned around in; here we jumped ashore in a green meadow, on which the
cool mist was beginning to descend.

When we arose in the morning, at 4 o'clock, to return with the boat, the
sun was already shining upon the westward hills, scarcely a cloud was in
the sky, and the air was pure and cool. To our great delight Ben Lomond
was unshrouded, and we were told that a more favorable day for the
ascent had not occurred for two months. We left the boat at Rowardennan,
an inn at the southern base of Ben Lomond. After breakfasting on Loch
Lomond trout, I stole out to the shore while my companions were
preparing for the ascent, and made a hasty sketch of the lake.

We purposed descending on the northern side and crossing the Highlands
to Loch Katrine; though it was represented as difficult and dangerous by
the guide who wished to accompany us, we determined to run the risk of
being enveloped in a cloud on the summit, and so set out alone, the path
appearing plain before us. We had no difficulty in following it up the
lesser heights, around the base. It wound on, over rock and bog, among
the heather and broom with which the mountain is covered, sometimes
running up a steep acclivity, and then winding zigzag round a rocky
ascent. The rains two days before, had made the bogs damp and muddy, but
with this exception, we had little trouble for some time. Ben Lomond is
a doubly formed mountain. For about three-fourths of the way there is a
continued ascent, when it is suddenly terminated by a large barren
plain, from one end of which the summit shoots up abruptly, forming at
the north side, a precipice 500 feet high. As we approached the summit
of the first part of the mountain, the way became very steep and
toilsome; but the prospect, which had before been only on the south
side, began to open on the east, and we saw suddenly spread out below
us, the vale of Menteith, with "far Loch Ard and Aberfoil" in the
centre, and the huge front of Benvenue filling up the picture. Taking
courage from this, we hurried on. The heather had become stunted and
dwarfish, and the ground was covered with short brown grass. The
mountain sheep, which we saw looking at us from the rock above, had worn
so many paths along the side, that we could not tell which to take, but
pushed on in the direction of the summit, till thinking it must be near
at hand, we found a mile and a half of plain before us, with the top of
Ben Lomond at the farther end. The plain was full of wet moss, crossed
in all directions by deep ravines or gullies worn in it by the mountain
rains, and the wind swept across with a tempest-like force.

I met, near the base, a young gentleman from Edinburgh, who had left
Rowardennan before us, and we commenced ascending together. It was hard
work, but neither liked to stop, so we climbed up to the first resting
place, and found the path leading along the brink of a precipice. We
soon attained the summit, and climbing up a little mound of earth and
stones, I saw the half of Scotland at a glance. The clouds hung just
above the mountain tops, which rose all around like the waves of a
mighty sea. On every side--near and far--stood their misty summits, but
Ben Lomond was the monarch of them all. Loch Lomond lay unrolled under
my feet like a beautiful map, and just opposite, Loch Long thrust its
head from between the feet of the crowded hills, to catch a glimpse of
the giant. We could see from Ben Nevis to Ayr--from Edinburgh to Staffa.
Stirling and Edinburgh Castles would have been visible, but that the
clouds hung low in the valley of the Forth and hid them from our sight.

The view from Ben Lomond is nearly twice as extensive as that from
Catskill, being uninterrupted on every side, but it wants the glorious
forest scenery, clear, blue sky, and active, rejoicing character of the
latter. We stayed about two hours upon the summit, taking refuge behind
the cairn, when the wind blew strong. I found the smallest of flowers
under a rock, and brought it away as a memento. In the middle of the
precipice there is a narrow ravine or rather cleft in the rock, to the
bottom, from whence the mountain slopes regularly but steeply down to
the valley. At the bottom we stopped to awake the echoes, which were
repeated four times; our German companion sang the Hunter's Chorus,
which resounded magnificently through this Highland hall. We drank from
the river Forth, which starts from a spring at the foot of the rock, and
then commenced descending. This was also toilsome enough. The mountain
was quite wet and covered with loose stones, which, dislodged by our
feet, went rattling down the side, oftentimes to the danger of the
foremost ones; and when we had run or rather slid down the three miles,
to the bottom, our knees trembled so as scarcely to support us.

Here, at a cottage on the farm of Coman, we procured some oat cakes and
milk for dinner, from an old Scotch woman, who pointed out the direction
of Loch Katrine, six miles distant; there was no road, nor indeed a
solitary dwelling between. The hills were bare of trees, covered with
scraggy bushes and rough heath, which in some places was so thick we
could scarcely drag our feet through. Added to this, the ground was
covered with a kind of moss that retained the moisture like a sponge, so
that our boots ere long became thoroughly soaked. Several considerable
streams were rushing down the side, and many of the wild breed of black
Highland cattle were grazing around. After climbing up and down one or
two heights, occasionally startling the moorcock and ptarmigan from
their heathery coverts, we saw the valley of Loch Con; while in the
middle of the plain on the top of the mountain we had ascended, was a
sheet of water which we took to be Loch Ackill. Two or three wild fowl
swimming on its surface were the only living things in sight. The peaks
around shut it out from all view of the world; a single decayed tree
leaned over it from a mossy rock, which gave the whole scene an air of
the most desolate wildness. I forget the name of the lake; but we
learned afterwards that the Highlanders consider it the abode of the
fairies, or "men of peace," and that it is still superstitiously shunned
by them after nightfall.

From the next mountain we saw Loch Ackill and Loch Katrine below, but a
wet and weary descent had yet to be made. I was about throwing off my
knapsack on a rock, to take a sketch of Loch Katrine, which appeared
very beautiful from this point, when we discerned a cavalcade of ponies
winding along the path from Inversnaid, to the head of the lake, and
hastened down to take the boat when they should arrive. Our haste turned
out to be unnecessary, however, for they had to wait for their luggage,
which was long in coming. Two boatmen then offered to take us for two
shillings and sixpence each, with the privilege of stopping at Ellen's
Isle; the regular fare being two shillings. We got in, when, after
exchanging a few words in Gaelic, one of them called to the travellers,
of whom there were a number, to come and take passage at two
shillings--then at one and sixpence, and finally concluded by requesting
them all to step on board the shilling boat! At length, having secured
nine at this reduced price, we pushed off; one of the passengers took
the helm, and the boat glided merrily over the clear water.

It appears there is some opposition among the boatmen this summer, which
is all the better for travelers. They are a bold race, and still
preserve many of the characteristics of the clan from which they sprung.
One of ours, who had a chieftain-like look, was a MacGregor, related to
Rob Roy. The fourth descendant in a direct line, now inhabits the Rob
Roy mansion, at Glengyle, a valley at the head of the lake. A small
steamboat was put upon Loch Katrine a short time ago, but the boatmen,
jealous of this new invasion of their privilege, one night towed her out
to the middle of the lake and there sunk her.

Near the point of Brianchoil is a very small island with a few trees
upon it, of which the boatman related a story that was new to me. He
said an eccentric individual, many years ago, built his house upon
it--but it was soon beaten down by the winds and waves. Having built it
up with like fortune several times, he at last desisted, saying, "bought
wisdom was the best;" since when it has been called the Island of
Wisdom. On the shore below, the boatman showed us his cottage. The whole
family were out at the door to witness our progress; he hoisted a flag,
and when we came opposite, they exchanged shouts in Gaelic. As our men
resumed their oars again, we assisted in giving three cheers, which made
the echoes of Benvenue ring again. Some one observed his dog, looking
after us from a projecting rock, when he called out to him, "go home,
you brute!" We asked him why he did not speak Gaelic also to his dog.

"Very few dogs, indeed," said he, "understand Gaelic, but they all
understand English. And we therefore all use English when speaking to
our dogs; indeed, I know some persons, who know nothing of English, that
speak it to their dogs!"

They then sang, in a rude manner, a Gaelic song. The only word I could
distinguish was Inch Caillach, the burying place of Clan Alpine. They
told us it was the answer of a Highland girl to a foreign lord, who
wished to make her his bride. Perhaps, like the American Indian, she
would not leave the graves of her fathers. As we drew near the eastern
end of the lake, the scenery became far more beautiful. The Trosachs
opened before us. Ben Ledi looked down over the "forehead bare" of Ben
An, and, as we turned a rocky point, Ellen's Isle rose up in front. It
is a beautiful little turquoise in the silver setting of Loch Katrine.
The northern side alone is accessible, all the others being rocky and
perpendicular, and thickly grown with trees. We rounded the island to
the little bay, bordered by the silver strand, above which is the rock
from which Fitz-James wound his horn, and shot under an ancient oak
which flung its long grey arms over the water; we here found a flight of
rocky steps, leading to the top, where stood the bower erected by Lady
Willoughby D'Eresby, to correspond with Scott's description. Two or
three blackened beams are all that remain of it, having been burned down
some years ago, by the carelessness of a traveler.

The mountains stand all around, like giants, to "sentinel this enchanted
land." On leaving the island, we saw the Goblin's Cave, in the side of
Benvenue, called by the Gaels, "Coirnan-Uriskin." Near it is
Beal-nam-bo, the pass of cattle, overhung with grey weeping birch trees.
Here the boatmen stopped to let us hear the fine echo, and the names of
"Rob Roy," and "Roderick Dhu," were sent back to us apparently as loud
as they were given. The description of Scott is wonderfully exact,
though the forest that feathered o'er the sides of Benvenue, has since
been cut down and sold by the Duke of Montrose. When we reached the end
of the lake it commenced raining, and we hastened on through the pass of
Beal-an-Duine, scarcely taking time to glance at the scenery, till Loch
Achray appeared through the trees, and on its banks the ivy-grown front
of the inn of Ardcheancrochan, with its unpronounceable name.




CHAPTER IV.

THE BURNS FESTIVAL.


We passed a glorious summer morning on the banks of Loch Katrine. The
air was pure, fresh and balmy, and the warm sunshine glowed upon forest
and lake, upon dark crag and purple mountain-top. The lake was a scene
in fairy-land. Returning over the rugged battle-plain in the jaws of the
Trosachs, we passed the wild, lonely valley of Glenfinlas and Lanric
Mead, at the head of Loch Vennachar, rounding the foot of Ben Ledi to
Coilantogle Ford. We saw the desolate hills of Uam-var over which the
stag fled from his lair in Glenartney, and keeping on through Callander,
stopped for the night at a little inn on the banks of the Teith. The
next day we walked through Doune, over the lowlands to Stirling.
Crossing Allan Water and the Forth, we climbed Stirling Castle and
looked on the purple peaks of the Ochill Mountains, the far Grampians,
and the battle-fields of Bannockburn and Sheriff Muir. Our German
comrade, feeling little interest in the memory of the poet-ploughman,
left in the steamboat for Edinburg; we mounted an English coach and rode
to Falkirk, where we took the cars for Glasgow in order to attend the
Burns Festival, on the 6th of August.

This was a great day for Scotland--the assembling of all classes to do
honor to the memory of her peasant-bard. And right fitting was it, too,
that such a meeting should be hold on the banks of the Doon, the stream
of which he has sung so sweetly, within sight of the cot where he was
born, the beautiful monument erected by his countrymen, and more than
all, beside "Alloway's witch-haunted wall!" One would think old Albyn
would rise up at the call, and that from the wild hunters of the
northern hills to the shepherds of the Cheviots, half her honest
yeomanry would be there, to render gratitude to the memory of the sweet
bard who was one of them, and who gave their wants and their woes such
eloquent utterance.

For months before had the proposition been made to hold a meeting on the
Doon, similar to the Shakspeare Festival on the Avon, and the 10th of
July was first appointed for the day, but owing to the necessity of
further time for preparation, it was postponed until the 6th of August.
The Earl of Eglintoun was chosen Chairman, and Professor Wilson
Vice-Chairman; in addition to this, all the most eminent British authors
were invited to attend. A pavilion, capable of containing two thousand
persons, had been erected near the monument, in a large field, which was
thrown open to the public. Other preparations were made and the meeting
was expected to be of the most interesting character.

When we arose it was raining, and I feared that the weather might dampen
somewhat the pleasures of the day, as it had done to the celebrated
tournament at Eglintoun Castle. We reached the station in time for the
first train, and sped in the face of the wind over the plains of
Ayrshire, which, under such a gloomy sky, looked most desolate. We ran
some distance along the coast, having a view of the Hills of Arran, and
reached Ayr about nine o'clock. We came first to the New Bridge, which
had a triumphal arch in the middle, and the lines, from the "Twa Brigs
of Ayr:"

    "Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street,
    Where twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet,
    Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and lime,
    Compare wi' bonnie brigs o' modern time?"

While on the arch of the 'old brig' was the reply:

    "I'll be a brig when ye're a shapeless stane."

As we advanced into the town, the decorations became more frequent. The
streets were crowded with people carrying banners and wreaths, many of
the houses were adorned with green boughs and the vessels in the harbor
hung out all their flags. We saw the Wallace Tower, a high Gothic
building, having in front a statue of Wallace leaning on his sword, by
Thom, a native of Ayr, and on our way to the green, where the procession
was to assemble, passed under the triumphal arch thrown across the
street opposite the inn where Tarn O'Shanter caroused so long with
Souter Johnny. Leaving the companies to form on the long meadow
bordering the shore, we set out for the Doon, three miles distant.
Beggars were seated at regular distances along the road, uttering the
most dolorous whinings. Both bridges were decorated in the same manner,
with miserable looking objects, keeping up, during the whole day, a
continual lamentation. Persons are prohibited from begging in England
and Scotland, but I suppose, this being an extraordinary day, license
was given them as a favor, to beg free. I noticed that the women, with
their usual kindness of heart, bestowed nearly all the alms which these
unfortunate objects received. The night before, as I was walking through
the streets of Glasgow, a young man of the poorer class, very scantily
dressed, stepped up to me and begged me to listen to him for a moment.
He spoke hurriedly, and agitatedly, begging me, in God's name, to give
him something, however little. I gave him what few pence I had with me,
when he grasped my hand with a quick motion, saying: "Sir, you little
think how much you have done for me." I was about to inquire more
particularly into his situation, but he had disappeared among the crowd.

We passed the "cairn where hunters found the murdered bairn," along a
pleasant road to the Burns cottage, where it was spanned by a
magnificent triumphal arch of evergreens and flowers. To the disgrace of
Scotland, this neat little thatched cot, where Burns passed the first
seven years of his life, is now occupied by somebody, who has stuck up a
sign over the door, "_licensed to retail spirits, to be drunk on the
premises_;" and accordingly the rooms were crowded full of people, all
drinking. There was a fine original portrait of Burns in one room, and
in the old fashioned kitchen we saw the recess where he was born. The
hostess looked towards us as if to inquire what we would drink, and I
hastened away--there was profanity in the thought. But by this time, the
bell of Old Alloway, which still hangs in its accustomed place, though
the walls only are left, began tolling, and we obeyed the call. The
attachment of the people for this bell, is so great, that a short time
ago, when it was ordered to be removed, the inhabitants rose en masse,
and prevented it. The ruin, which is close by the road, stands in the
middle of the church-yard, and the first thing I saw, on going in the
gate, was the tomb of the father of Burns. I looked in the old window,
but the interior was filled with rank weeds, and overshadowed by a young
tree, which had grown nearly to the eaves.

The crowd was now fast gathering in the large field, in the midst of
which the pavilion was situated. We went down by the beautiful monument
to Burns, to the "Auld Brig o' Doon," which was spanned by an arch of
evergreens, containing a representation of Tam O'Shanter and his grey
mare, pursued by the witches. It had been arranged that the procession
was to pass over the old and new bridges, and from thence by a temporary
bridge over the hedge into the field. At this latter place a stand was
erected for the sons of Burns, the officers of the day, and
distinguished guests. Here was a beautiful specimen of English
exclusiveness. The space adjoining the pavilion was fenced around, and
admittance denied at first to any, except those who had tickets for the
dinner, which, the price being fifteen shillings, entirely prevented the
humble laborers, who, more than all, should participate on the occasion,
from witnessing the review of the procession by the sons of Burns, and
hearing the eloquent speeches of Professor Wilson and Lord Eglintoun.
Thus, of the many thousands who were in the field, but a few hundred who
were crowded between the bridge and the railing around the pavilion,
enjoyed the interesting spectacle. By good fortune, I obtained a stand,
where I had an excellent view of the scene. The sons of Burns were in
the middle of the platform, with Eglintoun on the right, and Wilson on
their left. Mrs. Begg, sister of the Poet, with her daughters, stood by
the Countess of Eglintoun. She was a plain, benevolent looking woman,
dressed in black, and appearing still active and vigorous, though she is
upwards of eighty years old. She bears some likeness, especially in the
expression of her eye, to the Poet. Robert Burns, the oldest son,
appeared to me to have a strong resemblance of his father, and it is
said he is the only one who remembers his face. He has for a long time
had an office under Government, in London. The others have but lately
returned from a residence of twenty years in India. Professor Wilson
appeared to enter into the spirit of the scene better than any of them.
He shouted and waved his hat, and, with his fine, broad forehead, his
long brown locks already mixed with gray, streaming over his shoulders,
and that eagle eye glancing over the vast assemblage, seemed a real
Christopher North, yet full of the fire and vigor of youth--"a
gray-haired, happy boy!"

About half of the procession consisted of lodges of masons, all of whom
turned out on the occasion, as Burns was one of the fraternity. I was
most interested in several companies of shepherds, from the hills, with
their crooks and plaids; a body of archers in Lincoln green, with a
handsome chief at their head, and some Highlanders in their most
picturesque of costumes. As one of the companies, which carried a
mammoth thistle in a box, came near the platform, Wilson snatched a
branch, regardless of its pricks, and placed it on his coat. After this
pageant, which could not have been much less than three miles long, had
passed, a band was stationed on the platform in the centre of the field,
around which it formed in a circle, and the whole company sang, "Ye
Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon." Just at this time, a person dressed to
represent Tam O'Shanter, mounted on a gray mare, issued from a field
near the Burns Monument and rode along towards Alloway Kirk, from which,
when he approached it, a whole legion of witches sallied out and
commenced a hot pursuit. They turned back, however, at the keystone of
the bridge, the witch with the "cutty sark" holding up in triumph the
abstracted tail of Maggie. Soon after this the company entered the
pavilion, and the thousands outside were entertained, as an especial
favor, by the band of the 87th Regiment, while from the many liquor
booths around the field, they could enjoy themselves in another way.

We went up to the Monument, which was of more particular interest to us,
from the relics within, but admission was denied to all. Many persons
were collected around the gate, some of whom, having come from a great
distance, were anxious to see it; but the keeper only said, such were
the orders and he could not disobey them. Among the crowd, a grandson of
the original Tam O'Shanter was shown to us. He was a raw-looking boy of
nineteen or twenty, wearing a shepherd's cap and jacket, and muttered
his disapprobation very decidedly, at not being able to visit the
Monument.

There were one or two showers during the day, and the sky, all the time,
was dark and lowering, which was unfavorable for the celebration; but
all were glad enough that the rain kept aloof till the ceremonies were
nearly over. The speeches delivered at the dinner, which appeared in the
papers next morning, are undoubtedly very eloquent. I noticed in the
remarks of Robert Burns, in reply to Professor Wilson, an acknowledgment
which the other speakers forgot. He said, "The Sons of Burns have
grateful hearts, and to the last hour of their existence, they will
remember the honor that has been paid them this day, by the noble, the
lovely and the talented, of their native land--by men of genius and
kindred spirit from our sister land--and lastly, they owe their thanks
to the inhabitants of the far distant west, a country of a great, free,
and kindred people! (loud cheers.)" In connexion with this subject, I
saw an anecdote of the Poet, yesterday, which is not generally known.
During his connexion with the Excise, he was one day at a party, where
the health of Pitt, then minister, was proposed, as "his master and
theirs." He immediately turned down his glass and said, "I will give you
the health of a far greater and better man--GEORGE WASHINGTON!"

We left the field early and went back through the muddy streets of Ayr.
The street before the railway office was crowded, and there was so dense
a mass of people on the steps, that it seemed almost impossible to get
near. Seeing no other chance, I managed to take my stand on the lowest
steps, where the pressure of the crowd behind and the working of the
throng on the steps, raised me off my feet, and in about a quarter of an
hour carried me, compressed into the smallest possible space, up the
steps to the door, where the crowd burst in by fits, like water rushing
out of a bottle. We esteemed ouvselves fortunate in getting room to
stand in an open car, where, after a two hours' ride through the wind
and pelting rain, we arrived at Glasgow.




CHAPTER V.

WALK FROM EDINBURG OVER THE BORDER AND ARRIVAL AT LONDON.


We left Glasgow on the morning after returning from the Burns Festival,
taking passage in the open cars for Edinburg, for six shillings. On
leaving the depot, we plunged into the heart of the hill on which
Glasgow Cathedral stands and were whisked through darkness and sulphury
smoke to daylight again. The cars bore us past a spur of the Highlands,
through a beautiful country where women were at work in the fields, to
Linlithgow, the birth-place of Queen Mary. The majestic ruins of its
once-proud palace, stand on a green meadow behind the town. In another
hour we were walking through Edinburg, admiring its palace-like
edifices, and stopping every few minutes to gaze up at some lofty
monument. Really, thought I, we call Baltimore the "Monumental City" for
its two marble columns, and here is Edinburg with one at every
street-corner! These, too, not in the midst of glaring red buildings,
where they seem to have been accidentally dropped, but framed in by
lofty granite mansions, whose long vistas make an appropriate background
to the picture.

We looked from Calton Hill on Salisbury Crags and over the Firth of
Forth, then descended to dark old Holyrood, where the memory of lovely
Mary lingers like a stray sunbeam in her cold halls, and the fair,
boyish face of Rizzio looks down from the canvass on the armor of his
murderer. We threaded the Canongate and climbed to the Castle; and
finally, after a day and a half's sojourn, buckled on our knapsacks and
marched out of the Northern Athens. In a short time the tall spire of
Dalkeith appeared above the green wood, and we saw to the right, perched
on the steep banks of the Esk, the picturesque cottage of Hawthornden,
where Drummond once lived in poetic solitude. We made haste to cross the
dreary waste of the Muirfoot Hills before nightfall, from the highest
summit of which we took a last view of Edinburg Castle and the Salisbury
Crags, then blue in the distance. Far to the east were the hills of
Lammermuir and the country of Mid-Lothian lay before us. It was all
_Scott_-land. The inn of Torsonce, beside the Gala Water, was our
resting-place for the night. As we approached Galashiels the next
morning, where the bed of the silver Gala is nearly emptied by a number
of dingy manufactories, the hills opened, disclosing the sweet vale of
the Tweed, guarded by the triple peak of the Eildon, at whose base lay
nestled the village of Melrose.

I stopped at a bookstore to purchase a view of the Abbey; to my surprise
nearly half the works were by American authors. There wore Bryant,
Longfellow, Channing, Emerson, Dana, Ware and many others. The
bookseller told me he had sold more of Ware's Letters than any other
book in his store, "and also," to use his own words, "an immense number
of the great Dr. Channing." I have seen English editions of Percival,
Willis, Whittier and Mrs. Sigourney, but Bancroft and Prescott are
classed among the "standard _British_ historians."

Crossing the Gala we ascended a hill on the road to Selkirk, and behold!
the Tweed ran below, and opposite, in the midst of embowering trees
planted by the hand of Scott, rose the grey halls of Abbotsford. We went
down a lane to the banks of the swift stream, but finding no ferry,
B---- and I, as it looked very shallow, thought we might save a long
walk by wading across. F---- preferred hunting for a boat; we two set
out together, with our knapsacks on our backs, and our boots in our
hands. The current was ice-cold and very swift, and as the bed was
covered with loose stones, it required the greatest care to stand
upright. Looking at the bottom, through the rapid water, made my head so
giddy, I was forced to stop and shut my eyes; my friend, who had firmer
nerves, went plunging on to a deeper and swifter part, where the
strength of the current made him stagger very unpleasantly. I called to
him to return; the next thing I saw, he gave a plunge and went down to
the shoulder in the cold flood. While he was struggling with a
frightened expression of face to recover his footing, I leaned on my
staff and laughed till I was on the point of falling also. To crown our
mortification, F---- had found a ferry a few yards higher up and was on
the opposite shore, watching us wade back again, my friend with dripping
clothes and boots full of water. I could not forgive the pretty Scotch
damsel who rowed us across, the mischievous lurking smile which told
that she too had witnessed the adventure.

We found a foot-path on the other side, which led through a young forest
to Abbotsford. Rude pieces of sculpture, taken from Melrose Abbey, were
scattered around the gate, some half buried in the earth and overgrown
with weeds. The niches in the walls were filled with pieces of
sculpture, and an antique marble greyhound reposed in the middle of the
court yard. We rang the bell in an outer vestibule, ornamented with
several pairs of antlers, when a lady appeared, who, from her
appearance, I have no doubt was Mrs. Ormand, the "Duenna of Abbotsford,"
so humorously described by D'Arlincourt, in his "Three Kingdoms." She
ushered us into the entrance hall, which has a magnificent ceiling of
carved oak and is lighted by lofty stained windows. An effigy of a
knight in armor stood at either end, one holding a huge two-handed sword
found on Bosworth Field; the walls were covered with helmets and
breastplates of the olden time.

Among the curiosities in the Armory are Napoleon's pistols, the
blunderbuss of Hofer, Rob Roy's purse and gun, and the offering box of
Queen Mary. Through the folding doors between the dining-room,
drawing-room and library, is a fine vista, terminated by a niche, in
which stands Chantrey's bust of Scott. The ceilings are of carved
Scottish oak and the doors of American cedar. Adjoining the library is
his study, the walls of which are covered with books; the doors and
windows are double, to render it quiet and undisturbed. His books and
inkstand are on the table and his writing-chair stands before it, as if
he had left them but a moment before. In a little closet adjoining,
where he kept his private manuscripts, are the clothes he last wore, his
cane and belt, to which a hammer and small axe are attached, and his
sword. A narrow staircase led from the study to his sleeping room above,
by which he could come down at night and work while his family slept.
The silence about the place is solemn and breathless, as if it waited to
be broken by his returning footstep. I felt an awe in treading these
lonely halls, like that which impressed me before the grave of
Washington--a feeling that hallowed the spot, as if there yet lingered a
low vibration of the lyre, though the minstrel had departed forever!

Plucking a wild rose that grew near the walls, I left Abbotsford,
embosomed among the trees, and turned into a green lane that led down to
Melrose. We went immediately to the Abbey, in the lower part of the
village, near the Tweed. As I approached the gate, the porteress came
out, and having scrutinized me rather sharply, asked my name. I told
her;--"well," she added, "there is a _prospect_ here for you." Thinking
she alluded to the ruin, I replied: "Yes, the view is certainly very
fine." "Oh! I don't mean that," she replied, "a young gentleman left a
prospect here for you!"--whereupon she brought out a spy-glass, which I
recognized us one that our German comrade had given to me. He had gone
on, and hoped to meet us at Jedburgh.

Melrose is the finest remaining specimen of Gothic architecture in
Scotland. Some of the sculptured flowers in the cloister arches are
remarkably beautiful and delicate, and the two windows--the south and
east oriels--are of a lightness and grace of execution really
surprising. We saw the tomb of Michael Scott, of King Alexander II, and
that of the Douglas, marked with a sword. The heart of Bruce is supposed
to have been buried beneath the high altar. The chancel is all open to
the sky, and rooks build their nests among the wild ivy that climbs over
the crumbling arches. One of these came tamely down and perched upon the
hand of our fair guide. By a winding stair in one of the towers we
mounted to the top of the arch and looked down on the grassy floor. I
sat on the broken pillar, which Scott always used for a seat when he
visited the Abbey, and read the disinterring of the magic book, in the
"Lay of the Last Minstrel." I never comprehended its full beauty till
then: the memory of Melrose will give it a thrilling interest, in the
future. When we left, I was willing to say, with the Minstrel:

    "Was never scene so sad and fair!"

After seeing the home and favorite haunt of Scott, we felt a wish to
stand by his grave, but we had Ancrum Moor to pass before night, and the
Tweed was between us and Dryburgh Abbey. We did not wish to try another
watery adventure, and therefore walked on to the village of Ancrum,
where a gate-keeper on the road gave us lodging and good fare, for a
moderate price. Many of this class practise this double employment, and
the economical traveller, who looks more to comfort than luxury, will
not fail to patronize them.

Next morning we took a foot-path over the hills to Jedburgh. From the
summit there was a lovely view of the valley of the Teviot, with the
blue Cheviots in the distance. I thought of Pringle's beautiful
farewell:

    "Our native land, our native vale,
       A long, a last adieu,
     farewell to bonny Teviot-dale,
       And Cheviot's mountains blue!"

The poet was born in the valley below, and one that looks upon its
beauty cannot wonder how his heart clung to the scenes he was leaving.
We saw Jedburgh and its majestic old Abbey, and ascended the valley of
the Jed towards the Cheviots. The hills, covered with woods of a
richness and even gorgeous beauty of foliage, shut out this lovely glen
completely from the world. I found myself continually coveting the
lonely dwellings that were perched on the rocky heights, or nestled,
like a fairy pavilion, in the lap of a grove. These forests formerly
furnished the wood for the celebrated Jedwood axe, used in the Border
forays.

As we continued ascending, the prospect behind us widened, till we
reached the summit of the Carter Fell, whence there is a view of great
extent and beauty. The Eildon Hills, though twenty-five miles distant,
seemed in the foreground of the picture. With a glass, Edinburgh Castle
might be seen over the dim outline of the Muirfoot Hills. After crossing
the border, we passed the scene of the encounter between Percy and
Douglass, celebrated in "Chevy Chase," and at the lonely inn of
Whitelee, in the valley below, took up our quarters for the night.

Travellers have described the Cheviots as being bleak and uninteresting.
Although they are bare and brown, to me the scenery was of a character
of beauty entirely original. They are not rugged and broken like the
Highlands, but lift their round backs gracefully from the plain, while
the more distant ranges are clad in many an airy hue. Willis quaintly
and truly remarks, that travellers only tell you the picture produced in
their own brain by what they see, otherwise the world would be like a
pawnbroker's shop, where each traveller wears the cast-off clothes of
others. Therefore let no one, of a gloomy temperament, journeying over
the Cheviots in dull November, arraign me for having falsely praised
their beauty.

I was somewhat amused with seeing a splendid carriage with footmen and
outriders, crossing the mountain, the glorious landscape full in view,
containing a richly dressed lady, _fast asleep!_ It is no uncommon thing
to meet carriages in the Highlands, in which the occupants are
comfortably reading, while being whirled through the finest scenery. And
_apropos_ of this subject, my German friend related to me an incident.
His brother was travelling on the Rhine, and when in the midst of the
grandest scenes, met a carriage containing an English gentleman and
lady, both asleep, while on the seat behind was stationed an artist,
sketching away with all his might. He asked the latter the reason of his
industry, when he answered, "Oh! my lord wishes to see every night what
he has passed during the day, and so I sketch as we go along!"

The hills, particularly on the English side, are covered with flocks of
sheep, and lazy shepherds lay basking in the sun, among the purple
heather, with their shaggy black dogs beside them. On many of the hills
are landmarks, by which, when the snow has covered all the trucks, they
can direct their way. After walking many miles through green valleys,
down which flowed the Red Water, its very name telling of the conflicts
which had crimsoned its tide, we came to the moors, and ten miles of
blacker, drearier waste I never saw. Before entering them we passed the
pretty little village of Otterburn, near the scene of the battle. I
brought away a wild flower that grew on soil enriched by the blood of
the Percys. On the village inn, is their ancient coat of arms, a lion
rampant, on a field of gold, with the motto, "_Esperance en Dieu_."
Scarcely a house or a tree enlivened the black waste, and even the road
was marked on each side by high poles, to direct the traveller in
winter. We were glad when at length the green fields came again in
sight, and the little village of Whelpington Knowes, with its old
ivy-grown church tower, welcomed us after the lonely walk.

As one specimen of the intelligence of this part of England, we saw a
board conspicuously posted at the commencement of a private road,
declaring that "all persons travelling this way will be _persecuted_."
As it led to a _church_, however, there may have been a design in the
expression.

On the fifth day after leaving Edinburgh, we reached a hill, overlooking
the valley of the Tyne and the German Ocean, as sunset was reddening in
the west. A cloud of coal-smoke made us aware of the vicinity of
Newcastle. On the summit of the hill a large cattle fair was being held,
and crowds of people were gathered in and around a camp of gaudily
decorated tents. Fires were kindled here and there, and drinking,
carousing and horse-racing were flourishing in full vigor.

We set out one morning to hunt the Roman Wall. Passing the fine
buildings in the centre of the city and the lofty monument to Earl Grey,
we went towards the western gate and soon came to the ruins of a
building, about whose origin there could be no doubt. It stood there,
blackened by the rust of ages, a remnant of power passed away. There was
no mistaking the massive round tower, with its projecting ornaments,
such as are often seen in the ruder works of the Romans. On each side a
fragment of wall remained standing, and there appeared to be a chamber
in the interior, which was choked up with rubbish. There is another
tower, much higher, in a public square in another part of the city, a
portion of which is fitted up as a dwelling for the family which takes
care of it; but there was such a ridiculous contrast between the
ivy-grown top, and the handsome modern windows and doors of the lower
story, that it did not impress me half as much as the other, with all
its neglect. These are the farthest limits of that power whose mighty
works I hope hereafter to view at the seat of her grandeur and glory.

I witnessed a scene at Newcastle that cannot soon be forgotten; as it
showed more plainly than I had before an opportunity of observing, the
state to which the laboring classes of England are reduced. Hearing
singing in the street, under my window, one morning, I looked out and
saw a body of men, apparently of the lower class, but decent and sober
looking, who were singing in a rude and plaintive strain some ballad,
the purport of which I could not understand. On making inquiry, I
discovered it was part of a body of miners, who, about eighteen weeks
before, in consequence of not being able to support their families with
the small pittance allowed them, had "struck" for higher wages. This
their employers refused to give them, and sent to Wales, where they
obtained workmen at the former price. The houses these laborers had
occupied were all taken from them, and for eighteen weeks they had no
other means of subsistence than the casual charity given them for
singing the story of their wrongs. It made my blood boil to bear those
tones, wrung from the heart of poverty by the hand of tyranny. The
ignorance, permitted by the government, causes an unheard amount of
misery and degradation. We heard afterwards in the streets, another
company who played on musical instruments. Beneath the proud swell of
England's martial airs, there sounded to my ears a tone whose gathering
murmur will make itself heard ere long by the dull cars of Power.

At last at the appointed time, we found ourselves on board the "London
Merchant," in the muddy Tyne, waiting for the tide to rise high enough
to permit us to descend the river. There is great competition among the
steamboats this summer, and the price of passage to London is reduced to
five and ten shillings. The second cabin, however, is a place of
tolerable comfort, and as the steward had promised to keep berths for
us, we engaged passage. Following the windings of the narrow river, we
passed Sunderland and Tynemouth, where it expands into the German Ocean.
The water was barely stirred by a gentle wind, and little resembled the
stormy sea I expected to find it. We glided over the smooth surface,
watching the blue line of the distant shore till dark, when I went below
expecting to enjoy a few hours' oblivion. But the faithless steward had
given up the promised berth to another, and it was only with difficulty
that I secured a seat by the cabin table, where I dozed half the night
with my head on my arms. It grew at last too close and wearisome; I
went up on deck and lay down on the windlass, taking care to balance
myself well before going to sleep. The earliest light of dawn awoke me
to a consciousness of damp clothes and bruised limbs. We were in sight
of the low shore the whole day, sometimes seeing the dim outline of a
church, or group of trees over the downs or flat beds of sand, which
border the eastern coast of England. About dark, the red light of the
Nore was seen, and we hoped before many hours to be in London. The
lights of Gravesend were passed, but about ten o'clock, as we entered
the narrow channel of the Thames, we struck another steamboat in the
darkness, and were obliged to cast anchor for some time. When I went on
deck in the gray light of morning again, we were gliding up a narrow,
muddy river, between rows of gloomy buildings, with many vessels lying
at anchor. It grew lighter, till, as we turned a point, right before, me
lay a vast crowd of vessels, and in the distance, above the wilderness
of buildings, stood a dim, gigantic dome in the sky; what a bound my
heart gave at the sight! And the tall pillar that stood near it--I did
not need a second glance to recognize the Monument. I knew the majestic
bridge that spanned the river above; but on the right bank stood a
cluster of massive buildings, crowned with many a turret, that attracted
my eye. A crowd of old associations pressed bewilderingly upon the mind,
to see standing there, grim and dark with many a bloody page of
England's history--the Tower of London! The morning sky was as yet but
faintly obscured by the coal-smoke, and in the misty light of coming
sunrise, all objects seemed grander than their wont. In spite of the
thrilling interest of the scene, I could not help thinking of Byron's
ludicrous but most expressive description:

    "A mighty mass of brick and smoke and shipping,
    Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye
    Can reach; with here and there a sail just skipping
    In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
    Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping
    On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy;
    A huge dun cupola, like a fool's-cap crown
    On a fool's head,--and there is London town."




CHAPTER VI.

SOME OF THE "SIGHTS" OF LONDON.


In the course of time we came to anchor in the stream; skiffs from the
shore pulled alongside, and after some little quarrelling, we were
safely deposited in one, with a party who desired to be landed at the
Tower Stairs. The dark walls frowned above us as we mounted from the
water and passed into an open square on the outside of the moat. The
laborers were about commencing work, the fashionable _day_ having just
closed, but there was still noise and bustle enough in the streets,
particularly when we reached Whitechapel, part of the great
thoroughfare, extending through the heart of London to Westminster Abbey
and the Parliament buildings. Further on, through Leadenhall street and
Fleet street--what a world! Here come the ever-thronging, ever-rolling
waves of life, pressing and whirling on in their tumultuous career. Here
day and night pours the stream of human beings, seeming amid the roar
and din and clatter of the passing vehicles, like the tide of some great
combat. How lonely it makes one to stand still and feel that of all the
mighty throng which divides itself around him, not a being knows or
cares for him! What knows he too of the thousands who pass him by? How
many who bear the impress of godlike virtue, or hide beneath a goodly
countenance a heart black with crime? How many fiery spirits, all
glowing with hope for the yet unclouded future, or brooding over a
darkened and desolate past in the agony of despair? There is a sublimity
in this human Niagara that makes one look on his own race with something
of awe.

We walked down the Thames, through the narrow streets of Wapping, Over
the mouth of the Tunnel is a large circular building, with a dome to
light the entrance below. Paying the fee of a penny, we descended by a
winding staircase to the bottom, which is seventy-three feet below the
surface. The carriage-way, still unfinished, will extend further into
the city. From the bottom the view of the two arches of the Tunnel,
brilliantly lighted with gas, is very fine; it has a much less heavy and
gloomy appearance than I expected. As we walked along under the bed of
the river, two or three girls at one end began playing on the French
horn and bugle, and the echoes, when not too deep to confuse the melody,
were remarkably beautiful. Between the arches of the division separating
the two passages, are shops, occupied by venders of fancy articles,
views of the Tunnel, engravings, &c. In the middle is a small printing
press, where, a sheet containing a description of the whole work is
printed for those who desire it. As I was no stranger to this art, I
requested the boy to let me print one myself, but he had such a bad
roller I did not succeed in getting a good impression. The air within is
somewhat damp, but fresh and agreeably cool, and one can scarcely
realize in walking along the light passage, that a river is rolling
above his head. The immense solidity and compactness of the structure
precludes the danger of accident, each of the sides being arched
outwards, so that the heaviest pressure only strengthens the whole. It
will long remain a noble monument of human daring and ingenuity.

St. Paul's is on a scale of grandeur excelling every thing I have yet
seen. The dome seems to stand in the sky, as you look up to it; the
distance from which you view it, combined with the atmosphere of London,
give it a dim, shadowy appearance, that perfectly startles one with its
immensity. The roof from which the dome springs is itself as high as the
spires of most other churches--blackened for two hundred years with the
coal-smoke of London, it stands like a relic of the giant architecture
of the early world. The interior is what one would expect to behold,
after viewing the outside. A maze of grand arches on every side,
encompasses the dome, which you gaze up at, as at the sky; and from
every pillar and wall look down the marble forms of the dead. There is
scarcely a vacant niche left in all this mighty hall, so many are the
statues that meet one on every side. With the exceptions of John Howard,
Sir Astley Cooper and Wren, whose monument is the church itself, they
are all to military men. I thought if they had all been removed except
Howard's, it would better have suited such a temple, and the great soul
it commemorated.

I never was more impressed with the grandeur of human invention, than
when ascending the dome. I could with difficulty conceive the means by
which such a mighty edifice had been lifted into the air. That small
frame of Sir Christopher Wren must have contained a mind capable of vast
conceptions. The dome is like the summit of a mountain; so wide is the
prospect, and so great the pile upon which you stand. London lay beneath
us, like an ant-hill, with the black insects swarming to and fro in
their long avenues, the sound of their employments coming up like the
roar of the sea. A cloud of coal-smoke hung over it, through which many
a pointed spire was thrust up; sometimes the wind would blow it aside
for a moment, and the thousands of red roofs would shine out clearer.
The bridged Thames, covered with craft of all sizes, wound beneath us
like a ringed and spotted serpent. The scene was like an immense
circular picture in the blue frame of the hills around.

Continuing our way up Fleet street, which, notwithstanding the gaiety of
its shops and its constant bustle, has an antique appearance, we came to
the Temple Bar, the western boundary of the ancient city. In the inside
of the middle arch, the old gates are still standing. From this point we
entered the new portion of the city, which wore an air of increasing
splendor as we advanced. The appearance of the Strand and Trafalgar
Square is truly magnificent. Fancy every house in Broadway a store, all
built of light granite, the Park stripped of all its trees and paved
with granite, and a lofty column in the centre, double the crowd and the
tumult of business, and you will have some idea of the view.

It was a relief to get into St. James's Park, among the trees and
flowers again. Here, beautiful winding walks led around little lakes, in
which were hundreds of water-fowl, swimming. Groups of merry children
were sporting on the green lawn, enjoying their privilege of roaming
every where at will, while the older bipeds were confined to the regular
walks. At the western end stood Buckingham Palace, looking over the
trees towards St. Paul's; through the grove on the eminence above, the
towers of St. James's could be seen. But there was a dim building, with
two lofty square towers, decorated with a profusion of pointed Gothic
pinnacles, that I looked at with more interest than these appendages of
royalty. I could not linger long in its vicinity, but going back again
by the Horse Guards, took the road to _Westminster Abbey_.

We approached by the general entrance, Poet's Corner. I hardly stopped
to look at the elaborate exterior of Henry VIIth's Chapel, but passed on
to the door. On entering, the first thing that met my eyes were the
words, "OH RARE BEN JONSON," under his bust. Near by stood the monuments
of Spenser and Gay, and a few paces further looked down the sublime
countenance of Milton. Never was a spot so full of intense interest. The
light was just dim enough to give it a solemn, religious appearance,
making the marble forms of poets and philosophers so shadowy and
impressive, that I felt as if standing in their living presence. Every
step called up some mind linked with the associations of my childhood.
There was the gentle feminine countenance of Thompson, and the majestic
head of Dryden; Addison with his classic features, and Gray, full of the
fire of lofty thought. In another chamber, I paused long before the
ashes of Shakspeare; and while looking at the monument of Garrick,
started to find that I stood upon his grave. What a glorious galaxy of
genius is here collected--what a constellation of stars whose light is
immortal! The mind is completely fettered by their spirit. Everything is
forgotten but the mighty dead, who still "rule us from their urns."

The Chapel of Henry VII., which we next entered, is one of the most
elaborate specimens of Gothic workmanship in the world. If the first
idea of the Gothic arch sprung from observing the forms of trees, this
chapel must resemble the first conceptions of that order, for the fluted
columns rise up like tall trees, branching out at the top into spreading
capitals covered with leaves, and supporting arches of the ceiling
resembling a leafy roof.

The side-chapels are filled with tombs of knightly families, the husband
and wife lying on their backs on the tombs, with their hands clasped,
while their children, about the size of dolls, are kneeling around.
Numberless are the Barons and Earls and Dukes, whose grim effigies stare
from their tombs. In opposite chapels are the tombs of Mary and
Elizabeth, and near the former that of Darnley. After having visited
many of the scenes of her life, it was with no ordinary emotion that I
stood by the sepulchre of Mary. How differently one looks upon it and
upon that of the proud Elizabeth!

We descended to the Chapel of Edward the Confessor, within the splendid
shrine of which repose his ashes. Here we were shown the chair on which
the English monarchs have been crowned for several hundred years, Under
the seat is the stone, brought from the Abbey of Scone, whereon the
Kings of Scotland were crowned. The chair is of oak, carved and hacked
over with names, and on the bottom some one has recorded his name with
the fact that, he once slept in it. We sat down and rested in it without
ceremony. Passing along an aisle leading to the grand hall, we saw the
tomb of Aymer de Valence, a knight of the Crusades. Near here is the
hall where the Knights of the order of Bath met. Over each seat their
dusty banners are still hanging, each with its crest, and their armor is
rusting upon the wall. It seemed like a banqueting hall of the olden
time, where the knights had left their seats for a moment vacant.
Entering the nave, we were lost in the wilderness of sculpture. Here
stood the forms of Pitt, Fox, Burke, Sheridan and Watts, from the
chisels of Chantry, Bacon and Westmacott. Further down were Sir Isaac
Newton and Sir Godfrey Kneller--opposite Andre, and Paoli, the Italian,
who died here in exile. How can I convey an idea of the scene?
Notwithstanding all the descriptions I had read, I was totally
unprepared for the reality, nor could I have anticipated the hushed and
breathless interest with which I paced the dim aisles, gazing, at every
step, on the last resting place of some great and familiar name. A place
so sacred to all who inherit the English tongue, is worthy of a special
pilgrimage across the deep. To those who are unable to visit it, a
description may be interesting; but so far does it fall short of the
scene itself, that if I thought it would induce a few of our wealthy
idlers, or even those who, like myself, must travel with toil and
privation to come hither, I would write till the pen dropped from my
hand.

More than twenty grand halls of the British Museum are devoted to
antiquities, and include the Elgin Marbles--the spoils of the
Parthenon--the Fellows Marbles, brought from the ancient city of
Xanthus, and Sir William Hamilton's collection of Italian antiquities.
It was painful to see the friezes of the Parthenon, broken and defaced
as they are, in such a place. Rather let them moulder to dust on the
ruin from which they were torn, shining through the blue veil of the
Grecian atmosphere, from the summit of the Acropolis!

The National Gallery, on Trafalgar Square, is open four days in the
week, to the public. The "Raising of Lazarus," by Sebastian del Piombo,
is considered the gem of the collection, but my unschooled eyes could
not view it as such. It is also remarkable for having been transferred
from wood to canvass, without injury. This delicate operation was
accomplished by gluing the panel on which it was painted, flat on a
smooth table, and planing the wood gradually away till the coat of
hardened paint alone remained. A proper canvass was then prepared,
covered with a strong cement, and laid on the back of the picture, which
adhered firmly to it. The owner's nerves must have had a severe trial,
if he had courage to watch the operation. I was enraptured with
Murillo's pictures of St. John and the Holy Family. St. John is
represented as a boy in the woods, fondling a lamb. It is a glorious
head. The dark curls cluster around his fair brow, and his eyes seem
already glowing with the fire of future inspiration. There is an
innocence, a childish sweetness of expression in the countenance, which
makes one love to gaze upon it. Both of these paintings wore constantly
surrounded by ladies, and they certainly deserved the preference. In the
rooms devoted to English artists, there are many of the finest works of
West, Reynolds, Hogarth and Wilkie.

We spent a day in visiting the _lungs of London_, as the two grand parks
have been called. From the Strand through the Regent Circus, the centre
of the fashionable part of the city, we passed to Piccadilly, culling on
our way to see our old friends, the Iowas. They were at the Egyptian
Hall, in connexion with Catlin's Indian collection. The old braves knew
us at once, particularly Blister Feet, who used often to walk a linweon
deck with me, at sea. Further along Piccadilly is Wellington's mansion
of Apsley House, and nearly opposite it, in the corner of Hyde Park,
stands the colossal statue of Achilles, cast from cannon taken at
Salamanca and Vittoria. The Park resembles an open common, with here and
there a grove of trees, intersected by carriage roads, it is like
getting into the country again to be out on its broad, green field, with
the city seen dimly around through the smoky atmosphere. We walked for a
mile or two along the shady avenues and over the lawns, having a view of
the princely terraces and gardens on one hand, and the gentle outline of
Primrose Hill on the other. Regent's Park itself covers a space of
nearly four hundred acres!

But if London is unsurpassed in splendor, it has also its corresponding
share of crime. Notwithstanding the large and efficient body of police,
who do much towards the control of vice, one sees enough of degradation
and brutality in a short time, to make his heart sick. Even the public
thorough fares are thronged at night with characters of the lowest
description, and it is not expedient to go through many of the narrow
bye-haunts of the old city in the day-time. The police, who are ever on
the watch, immediately seize and carry off any offender, but from the
statements of persons who have had an opportunity of observing, as well
as from my own slight experience, I am convinced that there is an untold
amount of misery and crime. London is one of the wonders of the world,
but there is reason to believe it is one of the curses of the world
also; though, in fact, nothing but an active and unceasing philanthropy
can prevent any city from becoming so.

_Aug. 22._--I have now been six days in London, and by making good use
of my feet and eyes, have managed to become familiar with almost every
object of interest within its precincts. Having a plan mapped out for
the day, I started from my humble lodgings at the Aldgate Coffee House,
where I slept off fatigue for a shilling a night, and walked up
Cheapside or down Whitechapel, as the case might be, hunting out my way
to churches, halls and theatres. In this way, at a trifling expense, I
have perhaps seen as much as many who spend here double the time and
ten times the money. Our whole tour from Liverpool hither, by way of
Ireland and Scotland, cost us but twenty-five dollars each! although,
except in one or two cases, we denied ourselves no necessary comfort.
This shows that the glorious privilege of looking on the scenes of the
old world need not be confined to people of wealth and leisure. It may
be enjoyed by all who can occasionally forego a little bodily comfort
for the sake of mental and spiritual gain. We leave this afternoon for
Dover. Tomorrow I shall dine in Belgium!




CHAPTER VII.

FLIGHT THROUGH BELGIUM.


_Bruges._--On the Continent at last! How strangely look the century-old
towers, antique monuments, and quaint, narrow streets of the Flemish
cities! It is an agreeable and yet a painful sense of novelty to stand
for the first time in the midst of a people whose language and manners
are different from one's own. The old buildings around, linked with many
a stirring association of past history, gratify the glowing
anticipations with which one has looked forward to seeing them, and the
fancy is busy at work reconciling the _real_ scene with the _ideal_; but
the want of a communication with the living world about, walls one up
with a sense of loneliness he could not before have conceived. I envy
the children in the streets of Bruges their childish language.

Yesterday afternoon we came from London through the green wooded lawns
and vales of England, to Dover, which we reached at sunset, passing by a
long tunnel through the lofty Shakspeare Cliff. We had barely time
before it grew dark to ascend the cliff. The glorious coast view looked
still wilder in the gathering twilight, which soon hid from our sight
the dim hills of France. On the cliff opposite frowned the massive
battlements of the Castle, guarding the town, which lay in a nook of the
rocks below. As the Ostend boat was to leave at four in the morning, my
cousin aroused us at three, and we felt our way down stairs in the dark.
But the landlord was reluctant to part with us; we stamped and shouted
and rang bells, till the whole house was in an uproar, for the door was
double-locked, and the steamboat bell began to sound. At last he could
stand it no longer; we gave a quick utterance to our overflowing wrath,
and rushed down to the boat but a second or two before it left.

The water of the Channel was smooth as glass and as the sun rose, the
far chalky cliffs gleamed along the horizon, a belt of fire. I waved a
good-bye to Old England and then turned to see the spires of Dunkirk,
which were visible in the distance before us. On the low Belgian coast
we could see trees and steeples, resembling a mirage over the level
surface of the sea; at length, about ten o'clock, the square tower of
Ostend came in sight. The boat passed into a long muddy basin, in which
many unwieldy, red-sailed Dutch craft were lying, and stopped beside a
high pier. Here amid the confusion of three languages, an officer came
on board and took charge of our passports and luggage. As we could not
get the former for two or three hours, we did not hurry the passing of
the latter, and went on shore quite unincumbered, for a stroll about the
city, disregarding the cries of the hackney-coachmen on the pier,
"_Hotel d'Angleterre_," "_Hotel des Bains!_" and another who called out
in English, "I recommend you to the Royal Hotel, sir!"

There is little to be seen in Ostend. We wandered through long rows of
plain yellow houses, trying to read the French and low Dutch signs, and
at last came out on the wall near the sea. A soldier motioned us back as
we attempted to ascend it, and muttering some unintelligible words,
pointed to a narrow street near. Following this out of curiosity, we
crossed the moat and found ourselves on the great bathing beach. To get
out of the hands of the servants who immediately surrounded us, we
jumped into one of the little wagons and were driven out into the surf.

To be certain of fulfilling the railroad regulations, we took our seats
quarter of an hour before the time. The dark walls of Ostend soon
vanished and we were whirled rapidly over a country perfectly level, but
highly fertile and well cultivated. Occasionally there was a ditch or
row of trees, but otherwise there was no division between the fields,
and the plain stretched unbroken away into the distance. The twenty
miles to Bruges we made in forty minutes. The streets of this antique
city are narrow and crooked, and the pointed, ornamented gables of the
houses, produce a novel impression on one who has been accustomed to the
green American forests. Then there was the endless sound of wooden shoes
clattering over the rough pavements, and people talking in that most
unmusical of all languages, low Dutch. Walking at random through the
streets, we came by chance upon the Cathedral of Notre Dame. I shall
long remember my first impression of the scene within. The lofty gothic
ceiling arched far above my head and through the stained windows the
light came but dimly--it was all still, solemn and religious. A few
worshippers were kneeling in silence before some of the shrines and the
echo of my tread seemed like a profaning sound. On every side were
pictures, saints gilded shrines. A few steps removed one from the bustle
and din of the crowd to the stillness and solemnity of the holy retreat.

We learned from the guide, whom we had engaged because he spoke a few
words of English, that there was still a _treckshuyt_ line on the
canals, and that one boat leaves to-night at ten o'clock for Ghent.
Wishing to try this old Dutch method of travelling, he took us about
half a mile along the Ghent road to the canal, where a moderate sized
boat was lying. Our baggage deposited in the plainly furnished cabin, I
ran back to Bruges, although it was beginning to grow dark, to get a
sight of the belfry; for Longfellow's lines had been running through my
head all day:

"In the market place of Bruges, stands the belfry old and brown,
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town."

And having found the square, brown tower in one corner of the open
market square, we waited to hear the chimes, which are said to be the
finest in Europe. They rang out at last with a clear silvery tone, most
beautifully musical indeed. We then returned to the boat in the
twilight. We were to leave in about an hour, according to the
arrangement, but as yet there was no sound to be heard, and we were the
only tenants. However, trusting to Dutch regularity, we went to sleep in
the full confidence of awakening in Ghent.

I awoke once in the night and saw the dark branches of trees passing
before the window, but there was no perceptible sound nor motion; the
boat glided along like a dream, and we were awakened next morning by its
striking against the pier at Ghent. After paying three francs for the
whole night journey, the captain gave us a guide to the railroad
station, and as we had nearly an hour before the train left, I went to
see the Cathedral of St. Bavon. After leaving Ghent, the road passes
through a beautiful country, cultivated like a garden. The Dutch passion
for flowers is displayed in the gardens around the cottages; even every
vacant foot of ground along the railway is planted with roses and
dahlias. At Ghent, the morning being fair, we took seats in the open
cars. About noon it commenced raining and our situation was soon
anything but comfortable. My cousin had fortunately a water-proof Indian
blanket with him, which he had purchased in the "Far West," and by
wrapping this around all three of us, we kept partly dry. I was much
amused at the plight of a party of young Englishmen, who were in the
same car; one of them held a little parasol which just covered his hat,
and sent the water in streams down on his back and shoulders.

We had a misty view of Liege, through the torrents of rain, and then
dashed away into the wild, mountain scenery of the Meuse. Steep, rocky
hills, covered with pine and crowned with ruined towers, hemmed in the
winding and swollen river, and the wet, cloudy sky seemed to rest like a
canopy on their summits. Instead of threading their mazy defiles, we
plunged directly into the mountain's heart, flew over the narrow valley
on lofty and light-sprung arches, and went again into the darkness. At
Verviers, our baggage was weighed, examined and transferred, with
ourselves, to a Prussian train. There was a great deal of disputing on
the occasion. A lady, who had a dog in a large willow basket, was not
allowed to retain it, nor would they take it as baggage. The matter was
finally compromised by their sending the basket, obliging her to carry
the dog, which was none of the smallest, in her arms! The next station
bore the sign of the black eagle, and here our passports were obliged to
be given up. Advancing through long ranges of wooded hills, we saw at
length, in the dull twilight of a rainy day, the old kingly city of Aix
la Chapelle on a plain below us. After a scene at the custom-house,
where our baggage was reclaimed with tickets given at Verviers, we drove
to the _Hotel du Rhin_, and while warming our shivering limbs and drying
our damp garments, felt tempted to exclaim with the old Italian author:
"O! holy and miraculous tavern!"

The Cathedral with its lofty Gothic tower, was built by the emperor
Otho in the tenth century. It seems at present to be undergoing repairs,
for a large scaffold shut out the dome. The long hall was dim with
incense smoke as we entered, and the organ sounded through the high
arches with an effect that startled me. The windows glowed with the
forms of kings and saints, and the dusty and mouldering shrines which
rose around were colored with the light that came through. The music
pealed out like a triumphal march, sinking at times into a mournful
strain, as if it celebrated and lamented the heroes who slept below. In
the stone pavement nearly under my feet was a large square marble slab,
with words "CAROLO MAGNO." It was like a dream, to stand there on the
tomb of the mighty warrior, with the lofty arches of the Cathedral
above, filled with the sound of the divine anthem. I mused above his
ashes till the music ceased and then left the Cathedral, that nothing
might break the romantic spell associated with that crumbling pile and
the dead it covered. I have always revered the memory of Charlemagne. He
lived in a stern age, but he was in mind and heart a man, and like
Napoleon, who placed the iron crown which had lain with him centuries in
the tomb, upon his own brow, he had an Alpine grandeur of mind, which
the world was forced to acknowledge.

At noon we took the _chars-à-banc_, or second-class carriages, for fear
of rain, and continued our journey over a plain dotted with villages and
old chateaux. Two or three miles from Cologne we saw the spires of the
different churches, conspicuous among which were the unfinished towers
of the Cathedral, with the enormous crane standing as it did when they
left off building, two hundred years ago or more. On arriving, we drove
to the Bonn railway, where finding the last train did not leave for four
hours, we left our baggage and set out for the Cathedral. Of all Gothic
buildings, the plan of this is certainly the most stupendous; even ruin
as it is, it cannot fail to excite surprise and admiration. The King of
Prussia has undertaken to complete it according to the original plan,
which was lately found in the possession of a poor man, of whom it was
purchased for 40,000 florins, but he has not yet finished repairing what
is already built. The legend concerning this plan may not be known to
every one. It is related of the inventor of it, that in despair of
finding any sufficiently great, he was walking one day by the river,
sketching with his stick upon the sand, when he finally hit upon one
which pleased him so much that he exclaimed: "This shall be the plan!"
"I will show you a better one than that!" said a voice suddenly behind
him, and a certain black gentleman who figures in all German legends
stood by him, and pulled from his pocket a roll containing the present
plan of the Cathedral. The architect, amazed at its grandeur, asked an
explanation of every part. As he knew his soul was to be the price of
it, he occupied himself while the devil was explaining, in committing
its proportions carefully to memory. Having done this, he remarked that
it did not please him and he would not take it. The devil, seeing
through the cheat, exclaimed in his rage: "You may build your Cathedral
according to this plan, but you shall never finish it!" This prediction
seems likely to be verified, for though it was commenced in 1248, and
built for 250 years, only the choir and nave and one tower to half its
original height, are finished.

We visited the chapel of the eleven thousand virgins, the walls of which
are full of curious grated cells, containing their bones, and then
threaded the narrow streets of Cologne, which are quite dirty enough to
justify Coleridge's lines:

    "The river Rhine, it is well known
    Doth wash the city of Cologne;
    But tell me nymphs, what power divine
    Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine!"




CHAPTER VIII.

THE RHINE TO HEIDELBERG.


HEIDELBERG, August 30. Here at last! and a most glorious place it is.
This is our first morning in our new rooms, and the sun streams warmly
in the eastern windows, as I write, while the old castle rises through
the blue vapor on the side of the Kaiser-stuhl. The Neckar rushes on
below; and the Odenwald, before, me, rejoices with its vineyards in the
morning light. The bells of the old chapel near us are sounding most
musically, and a confused sound of voices and the rolling of vehicles
comes up from the street. It is a place to live in!

I must go back five or six days and take up the record of our
journeyings at Bonn. We had been looking over Murray's infallible
"Handbook," and observed that he recommended the "Star" hotel in that
city, as "the most moderate in its prices of any on the Rhine;" so when
the train from Cologne arrived and we were surrounded, in the darkness
and confusion, by porters and valets, I sung out: "_Hotel de l'Etoile
d'or!_" our baggage and ourselves were transferred to a stylish omnibus,
and in five minutes we stopped under a brilliantly-lighted archway,
where Mr. Joseph Schmidt received us with the usual number of smiles and
bows bestowed upon untitled guests. We were furnished with neat rooms in
the summit of the house, and then descended to the _salle à manger_. I
found a folded note by my plate, which I opened--it contained an
engraving of the front of the hotel, a plan of the city and catalogue of
its lions, together with a list of the titled personages who have, from
time to time, honored the "Golden Star" with their custom. Among this
number were "Their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge,
Prince Albert," etc. Had it not been for fatigue, I should have spent
an uneasy night, thinking of the heavy bill which was to be presented on
the morrow. We escaped, however, for seven francs apiece, three of which
were undoubtedly for the honor of breathing an aristocratic atmosphere.

I was glad when we were really in motion on the swift Rhine, the next
morning, and nearing the chain of mountains that rose up before us. We
passed Godesberg on the right, while on our left was the group of the
seven mountains which extend back from the Drachenfels to the
Wolkenberg, or Castle of the Clouds. Here we begin to enter the
enchanted land. The Rhine sweeps around the foot of the Drachenfels,
while opposite the precipitous rock of Rolandseek, crowned with the
castle of the faithful knight, looks down upon the beautiful Island of
Nonnenwerth, the white walls of the convent still gleaming through the
trees, as they did when the warrior's weary eyes looked upon them for
the last time. I shall never forget the enthusiasm with which I saw this
scene in the bright, warm sunlight, the rough crags softened in the haze
which filled the atmosphere, and the wild mountains springing up in the
midst of vineyards, and crowned with crumbling towers, filled with the
memories of a thousand years.

After passing Andernach, we saw in the distance the highlands of the
middle Rhine, which rise above Coblentz, guarding the entrance to its
wild scenery, and the mountains of the Moselle. They parted as we
approached; from the foot shot up the spires of Coblentz, and the
battlements of Ehrenbreitstein crowning the mountain opposite, grew
larger and broader. The air was slightly hazy, and the clouds seemed
laboring among the distant mountains to raise a storm. As we came
opposite the mouth of the Moselle and under the shadow of the mighty
fortress, I gazed up with awe at its massive walls. Apart from its
magnitude and almost impregnable situation on a perpendicular rock, it
is filled with the recollections of history and hallowed by the voice of
poetry. The scene went past like a panorama, the bridge of boats opened,
the city glided behind us and we entered the highlands again.

Above Coblentz almost every mountain has a ruin and a legend. One feels
everywhere the spirit of the past, and its stirring recollections come
back upon the mind with irresistible force. I sat upon the deck the
whole afternoon, as mountains, towns and castles passed by on either
side, watching them with a feeling of the most enthusiastic enjoyment.
Every place was familiar to me in memory, and they seemed like friends I
had long communed with in spirit and now met face to face. The English
tourists, with whom the deck was covered, seemed interested too, but in
a different manner. With Murray's Handbook open in their hands, they sat
and read about the very towns and towers they were passing, scarcely
lifting their eyes to the real scenes, except now and then, to observe
that it was "_very nice_."

As we passed Boppart, I sought out the Inn of the "Star," mentioned in
"Hyperion"; there was a maiden sitting on the steps who might have been
Paul Flemming's fair boat-woman. The clouds which had here gathered
among the hills, now came over the river, and the rain cleared the deck
of its crowd of admiring tourists. As we were approaching Lurlei Berg, I
did not go below, and so enjoyed some of the finest scenery on the Rhine
alone. The mountains approach each other at this point, and the Lurlei
Rock rises up for six hundred feet from the water. This is the haunt of
the water nymph, Lurlei, whose song charmed the ear of the boatman while
his barque was dashed to pieces on the rocks below. It is also
celebrated for its remarkable echo. As we passed between the rocks, a
guard, who has a little house built on the road-side, blew a flourish on
his bugle, which was instantly answered by a blast from the rocky
battlements of Lurlei. The German students have a witty trick with this
echo: they call out, "Who is the Burgomaster of Oberwesel?" a town just
above. The echo answers with the last syllable "Esel!" which is the
German for _ass_.

The sun came out of the cloud as we passed Oberwesel, with its tall
round tower, and the light shining through the ruined arches of
Schonberg castle, made broad bars of light and shade in the still misty
air. A rainbow sprang up out of the Rhine, and lay brightly on the
mountain side, coloring vineyard and crag, in the most singular beauty,
while its second reflection faintly arched like a glory above the high
summits. In the bed of the river were the seven countesses of Schonberg,
turned into seven rocks for their cruelty and hard-heartedness towards
the knights whom their beauty had made captive. In front, at a little
distance was the castle of Pfalz, in the middle of the river, and from
the heights above Caub frowned the crumbling citadel of Gutenfels.
Imagine all this, and tell me if it is not a picture whose memory should
last a life-time!

We came at last to Bingen, the southern gate of the Highlands. Here, on
an island in the middle of the stream, is the old Mouse tower where
Bishop Hatto of Mayence was eaten up by the rats for his wicked deeds.
Passing Rudesheim and Geissenheim, celebrated for their wines, at
sunset, we watched the varied shore in the growing darkness, till like a
line of stars across the water, we saw before us the bridge of Mayence.

The next morning I parted from my friends, who were going to Heidelberg
by way of Mannheim, and set out alone for Frankfort. The cars passed
through Hochheim, whose wines are celebrated all over the world; there
is little to interest the traveler till he arrives at Frankfort, whose
spires are seen rising from groves of trees as he approaches. I left the
cars, unchallenged for my passport, greatly to my surprise, as it had
cost me a long walk and five shillings in London, to get the signature
of the Frankfort Consul. I learned afterwards it was not at all
necessary. Before leaving America, N.P. Willis had kindly given me a
letter to his brother, Richard S. Willis, who is now cultivating a
naturally fine taste for music in Frankfort, and my first care was to
find the American Consul, in order to learn his residence. I discovered
at last, from a gentleman who spoke a little French, that the Consul's
office was in the street _Bellevue_, which street I not only looked for
through the city, but crossed over the bridge to the suburb of
Sachsenhausen, and traversed its narrow, dirty alleys three several
times, but in vain. I was about giving up the search, when I stumbled
upon the office accidentally. The name of the street had been given to
me in French and very naturally it was not to be found. Willis received
me very kindly and introduced me to the amiable German family with whom
he resides.

After spending a delightful evening with my newly-found friends, I left
the next morning in the omnibus for Heidelberg. We passed through
Sachsenhausen and ascended a long hill to the watch-tower, whence there
is a beautiful view of the Main valley. Four hours' driving over the
monotonous plain, brought me to Darmstadt. The city wore a gay look,
left by the recent _fêtes_. The monument of the old Duke Ludwig had just
been erected in the centre of the great square, and the festival
attendant upon the unveiling of it, which lasted three days, had just
closed. The city was hung with garlands, and the square filled with the
pavilions of the royal family and the musicians, of whom there were a
thousand present, while everywhere were seen red and white flags--the
colors of Darmstadt. We met wagons decorated with garlands, full of
pleasant girls, in the odd dress which they have worn for three hundred
years.

After leaving Darmstadt we entered upon the Bergstrasse, or
Mountain-way, leading along the foot of the mountain chain which extends
all the way to Heidelberg on the left, while on the right stretches far
away the Rhine-plain, across which we saw the dim outline of the
Donnersberg, in France. The hills are crowned with castles and their
sides loaded with vines; along the road the rich green foliage of the
walnut trees arched and nearly met above us. The sun shone warm and
bright, and every body appeared busy and contented and happy. All we met
had smiling countenances. In some places we saw whole families sitting
under the trees shelling the nuts they had beaten down, while others
were returning from the vineyards, laden with baskets of purple and
white grapes. The scene seemed to realize all I had read of the
happiness of the German peasantry, and the pastoral beauty of the German
plains.

With the passengers in the omnibus I could hold little conversation.
One, who knew about as much French as I did, asked me where I came from,
and I shall not soon forget his expression of incredulity, as I
mentioned America. "Why," said he, "you are white--the Americans are all
black!"

We passed the ruined castles of Auerback and Starkenburg, and Burg
Windeck, on the summit of a mountain near Weinheim, formerly one of the
royal residences of Charlemagne, and finally came to the Heiligenberg or
Holy Mountain, guarding the entrance into the Odenwald by the valley of
the Neckar. As we wound around its base to the river, the Kaiserstuhl
rose before us, with the mighty castle hanging upon its side and
Heidelberg at its feet. It was a most strikingly beautiful scene, and
for a moment I felt inclined to assent to the remark of my bad-French
acquaintance--"America is not beautiful--Heidelberg is beautiful!" The
sun had just set as we turned the corner of the Holy Mountain and drove
up the bank of the Neckar; all the chimes of Heidelberg began suddenly
to ring and a cannon by the riverside was fired off every minute--the
sound echoing five times distinctly from mountain back to mountain, and
finally crashing far off, along the distant hills of the Odenwald. It
was the birthday of the Grand Duke of Baden, and these rejoicings were
for the closing _fête_.




CHAPTER IX.

SCENES IN AND AROUND HEIDELBERG.


_Sept. 30._--There is so much to be seen around this beautiful place,
that I scarcely know where to begin a description of it. I have been
wandering among the wild paths that lead up and down the mountain side,
or away into the forests and lonely meadows in the lap of the Odenwald.
My mind is filled with images of the romantic German scenery, whose real
beauty is beginning to displace the imaginary picture which I had
painted with the enthusiastic words of Howitt. I seem to stand now upon
the Kaiser-stuhl, which rises above Heidelberg, with that magnificent
landscape around me, from the Black Forest and Strasburg to Mainz, and
from the Vosges in France to the hills of Spessart in Bavaria. What a
glorious panorama! and not less rich in associations than in its natural
beauty. Below me had moved the barbarian hordes of old, the triumphant
followers of Arminius, and the Cohorts of Rome; and later, full many a
warlike host bearing the banners of the red cross to the Holy
Land,--many a knight returning with his vassals from the field, to lay
at the feet of his lady-love the scarf he had worn in a hundred battles
and claim the reward of his constancy and devotion. But brighter spirits
had also toiled below. That plain had witnessed the presence of Luther,
and a host who strove with him to free the world from the chains of a
corrupt and oppressive religion. There had also trodden the master
spirits of German song--the giant twain, with their scarcely less
harmonious brethren: they, too, had gathered inspiration from those
scenes--more fervent worship of nature and a deeper love for their
beautiful fatherland! Oh! what waves of crime and bloodshed have swept
like the waves of a deluge down the valley of the Rhine! War has laid
his mailed hand on those desolate towers and ruthlessly torn down what
time has spared, yet he could not mar the beauty of the shore, nor could
Time himself hurl down the mountains that guard it. And what if I feel a
new inspiration on beholding the scene? Now that those ages have swept
by, like the red waves of a tide of blood, we see not the darkened
earth, but the golden sands which the flood has left behind. Besides, I
have come from a new world, where the spirit of man is untrammeled by
the mouldering shackles of the past, but in its youthful and joyous
freedom, goes on to make itself a noble memory for the ages that are to
come!

Then there is the Wolfsbrunnen, which one reaches by a beautiful walk up
the bank of the Neckar, to a quiet dell in the side of the mountain.
Through this the roads lead up by rustic mills, always in motion, and
orchards laden with ripening fruit, to the commencement of the forest,
where a quaint stone fountain stands, commemorating the abode of a
sorceress of the olden time, who was torn in pieces by a wolf. There is
a handsome rustic inn here, where every Sunday afternoon a band plays in
the portico, while hundreds of people are scattered around in the cool
shadow of the trees, or feeding the splendid trout in the basin formed
by the little stream. They generally return to the city by another walk
leading along the mountain side, to the eastern terrace of the castle,
where they have fine views of the great Rhine plain, terminated by the
Alsatian hills, stretching along the western horizon like the long
crested swells on the ocean. We can even see these from the windows of
our room on the bank of the Neckar; and I often look with interest on
one sharp peak, for on its side stands the Castle of Trifels, where
Coeur de Lion was imprisoned by the Duke of Austria, and where Blondel,
his faithful minstrel, sang the ballad which discovered the retreat of
the noble captive.

The people of Heidelberg are rich in places of pleasure and amusement.
From the Carl Platz, an open square at the upper end of the city, two
paths lead directly up to the castle. By the first walk we ascend a
flight of steps to the western gate, passing through which, we enter a
delightful garden, between the outer walls of the Castle, and the huge
moat which surrounds it. Great linden, oak and beech trees shadow the
walk, and in secluded nooks, little mountain streams spring from the
side of the wall into stone basins. There is a tower over the moat on
the south side, next the mountain, where the portcullis still hangs with
its sharp teeth as it was last drawn up; on each side stand two grim
knights guarding the entrance. In one of the wooded walks is an old tree
brought from America in the year 1618. It is of the kind called _arbor
vitæ_, and uncommonly tall and slender for one of this species; yet it
does not seem to thrive well in a foreign soil. I noticed that persons
had cut many slips off the lower branches, and I would have been tempted
to do the same myself if there had been any I could reach. In the curve
of the mountain is a handsome pavilion, surrounded with beds of flowers
and fountains; here all classes meet together in the afternoon to sit
with their refreshments in the shade, while frequently a fine band of
music gives them their invariable recreation. All this, with the scenery
around them, leaves nothing unfinished to their present enjoyment. The
Germans enjoy life under all circumstances, and in this way they make
themselves much happier than we, who have far greater means of being so.

At the end of the terrace built for the princess Elizabeth, of England,
is one of the round towers, which was split in twain by the French. Half
has fallen entirely away, and the other semicircular shell which joins
the terrace and part of the Castle buildings, clings firmly together,
although part of its foundation is gone, so that its outer ends actually
hang in the air. Some idea of the strength of the castle may be obtained
when I state that the walls of this tower are twenty-two feet thick, and
that a staircase has been made through them to the top, where one can
sit under the lindens growing upon it, or look down from the end on the
city below with the pleasant consciousness that the great mass upon
which he stands is only prevented from crashing down with him by the
solidity of its masonry. On one side, joining the garden, the statue of
the Archduke Louis, in his breastplate and flowing beard, looks out from
among the ivy.

There is little to be seen about the Castle except the walls themselves.
The guide conducted us through passages, in which were heaped many of
the enormous cannon balls which it had received in sieges, to some
chambers in the foundation. This was the oldest part of the Castle,
built in the thirteenth century. We also visited the chapel, which is in
a tolerable state of preservation. A kind of narrow bridge crosses it,
over which we walked, looking down on the empty pulpit and deserted
shrines. We then went into the cellar to see the celebrated Tun. In a
large vault are kept several enormous hogsheads, one of which is three
hundred years old, but they are nothing in comparison with the tun,
which itself fills a whole vault. It is as high as a common two story
house; on the top is a platform upon which the people used to dance
after it was filled, to which one ascends by two flights of steps. I
forgot exactly how many casks it holds, but I believe eight hundred. It
has been empty for fifty years.

We are very pleasantly situated here. My friends, who arrived a day
before me, hired three rooms (with the assistance of a courier) in a
large house on the banks of the Neckar. We pay for them, with
attendance, thirty florins--about twelve dollars--a month, and Frau Dr.
Grosch, our polite and talkative landlady, gives us a student's
breakfast--coffee and biscuit--for about seven cents apiece. We are
often much amused to hear her endeavors to make us understand. As if to
convey her meaning plainer, she raises both thumbs and forefingers to
her mouth and pulls out the words like a long string; her tongue goes so
fast that it keeps my mind always on a painful stretch to comprehend an
idea here and there. Dr. S----, from whom we take lessons in German, has
kindly consented to our dining with his family for the sake of practice
in speaking. We have taken several long walks with them along the banks
of the Neckar, but I should be puzzled to repeat any of the
conversations that took place. The language, however, is fast growing
more familiar, since _women_ are the principal teachers.

Opposite my window rises the Heiligenberg, on the other side of the
Neckar. The lower part of it is rich with vineyards, and many cottages
stand embosomed in shrubbery among them. Sometimes we see groups of
maidens standing under the grape arbors, and every morning the peasant
women go toiling up the steep paths with baskets on their heads, to
labor among the vines. On the Neckar below us, the fishermen glide about
in their boats, sink their square nets fastened to a long pole, and haul
them up with the glittering fish, of which the stream is full. I often
lean out of the window late at night, when the mountains above are
wrapped in dusky obscurity, and listen to the low, musical ripple of the
river. It tells to my excited fancy a knightly legend of the old German
time. Then comes the bell, rung for closing the inns, breaking the spell
with its deep clang, which vibrates far away on the night air, till it
has roused all the echoes of the Odenwald. I then shut the window, turn
into the narrow box which the Germans call a bed, and in a few minutes
am wandering in America. Half way up the Heiligenberg runs a beautiful
walk, dividing the vineyards from the forest above. This is called the
Philosopher's Way, because it was the favorite ramble of the old
Professors of the University. It can be reached by a toilsome, winding
path among the vines, called the Snake-way, and when one has ascended to
it he is well rewarded by the lovely view. In the evening, when the sun
has got behind the mountain, it is delightful to sit on the stone steps
and watch the golden light creeping up the side of the Kaiser-stuhl,
till at last twilight begins to darken in the valley and a mantle of
mist gathers above the Neckar.

We ascended the mountain a few days ago. There is a path which leads up
through the forest, but we took the shortest way, directly up the side,
though it was at an angle of nearly fifty degrees. It was hard enough
work, scrambling through the thick broom and heather, and over stumps
and stones. In one of the stone-heaps I dislodged a large orange-colored
salamander, seven or eight inches long. They are sometimes found on
these mountains, as well as a very large kind of lizard, called the
_eidechse_, which the Germans say is perfectly harmless, and if one
whistles or plays a pipe, will come and play around him. The view from
the top reminded me of that from Catskill Mountain House, but is on a
smaller scale. The mountains stretch off sideways, confining the view to
but half the horizon, and in the middle of the picture the Hudson is
well represented by the lengthened windings of the "abounding Rhine."
Nestled at the base below us, was the little village of Handschuhheim,
one of the oldest in this part of Germany. The castle of its former
lords has nearly all fallen down, but the massive solidity of the walls
which yet stand, proves its antiquity. A few years ago, a part of the
outer walls which was remarked to have a hollow sound, was taken down,
when there fell from a deep niche built therein, a skeleton, clad in a
suit of the old German armor. We followed a road through the woods to
the peak on which stand the ruins of St. Michael's chapel, which was
built in the tenth century and inhabited for a long time by a sect of
white monks. There is now but a single tower remaining, and all around
is grown over with tall bushes and weeds. It had a wild and romantic
look, and I sat on a rock and sketched at it, till it grew dark, when we
got down the mountain the best way we could.

We lately visited the great University Library. You walk through one
hall after another, filled with books of all kinds, from the monkish
manuscript of the middle ages, to the most elegant print of the present
day. There is something to me more impressive in a library like this
than a solemn Cathedral. I think involuntarily of the hundreds of mighty
spirits who speak from these three hundred thousand volumes--of the
toils and privations with which genius has ever struggled, and of his
glorious reward. As in a church, one feels as it were, the presence of
God; not because the place has been hallowed by his worship, but because
all around stand the inspirations of his spirit, breathed through the
mind of genius, to men. And if the mortal remains of saints and heroes
do not repose within its walls, the great and good of the whole earth
are there, speaking their counsels to the searcher for truth, with
voices whose last reverberation will die away only when the globe falls
into ruin.

A few nights ago there was a wedding of peasants across the river. In
order to celebrate it particularly, the guests went to the house where
it was given, by torchlight. The night was quite dark, and the bright
red torches glowed on the surface of the Neckar, as the two couriers
galloped along the banks to the bridegroom's house. Here, after much
shouting and confusion, the procession was arranged, the two riders
started back again with their torches, and the wagons containing the
guests followed after with their flickering lights glancing on the
water, till they disappeared around the foot of the mountain. The
choosing of Conscripts also took place lately. The law requires one
person out of every hundred to become a soldier, and this, in the city
of Heidelberg, amounts to nearly 150. It was a sad spectacle. The young
men, or rather boys, who were chosen, went about the city with cockades
fastened on their hats, shouting and singing, many of them quite
intoxicated. I could not help pitying them because of the dismal,
mechanical life they are doomed to follow. Many were rough, ignorant
peasants, to whom nearly any kind of life would be agreeable; but there
were some whose countenances spoke otherwise, and I thought
involuntarily, that their drunken gaiety was only affected to conceal
their real feelings with regard to the lot which had fallen upon them.

We are gradually becoming accustomed to the German style of living,
which is very different from our own. Their cookery is new to us, but
is, nevertheless, good. We have every day a different kind of soup, so I
have supposed they keep a regular list of three hundred and sixty-five,
one for every day in the year! Then we have potatoes "done up" in oil
and vinegar, veal flavored with orange peel, barley pudding, and all
sorts of pancakes, boiled artichokes, and always rye bread, in loaves a
yard long! Nevertheless, we thrive on such diet, and I have rarely
enjoyed more sound and refreshing sleep than in their narrow and
coffin-like beds, uncomfortable as they seem. Many of the German customs
are amusing. We never see oxen working here, but always cows, sometimes
a single one in a cart, and sometimes two fastened together by a yoke
across their horns. The women labor constantly in the fields; from our
window we can hear the nut-brown maidens singing their cheerful songs
among the vineyards on the mountain side. Their costume, too, is odd
enough. Below the light-fitting vest they wear such a number of short
skirts, one above another, that it reminds one of an animated hogshead,
with a head and shoulders starting out from the top. I have heard it
gravely asserted that the wealth of a German damsel may be known by
counting the number of her "kirtles." An acquaintance of mine remarked,
that it would be an excellent costume for falling down a precipice!

We have just returned from a second visit to Frankfort, where the great
annual fair filled the streets with noise and bustle. On our way back,
we stopped at the village of Zwingenberg, which lies at the foot of the
Melibochus, for the purpose of visiting some of the scenery of the
Odenwald. Passing the night at the inn there, we slept with one bed
under and two above, and started early in the morning to climb up the
side of the Melibochus. After a long walk through the forests, which
were beginning to change their summer foliage for a brighter garment, we
reached the summit and ascended the stone tower which stands upon it.
This view gives one a better idea of the Odenwald, than that from the
Kaiser-stuhl at Heidelberg. In the soft autumn atmosphere it looked even
more beautiful. After an hour in that heaven of uplifted thought, into
which we step from the mountain-top, our minds went with the path
downward to earth, and we descended the eastern side into the wild
region which contains the _Felsenmeer_, or Sea of Rocks.

We met on the way a student from Fulda--a fine specimen of that
free-spirited class, and a man whose smothered aspiration was betrayed
in the flashing of his eye, as he spoke of the present painful and
oppressed condition of Germany. We talked so busily together that
without noticing the path, which had been bringing us on, up hill and
down, through forest and over rock, we came at last to a halt in a
valley among the mountains. Making inquiries there, we found we had gone
wrong, and must ascend by a different path the mountain we had just come
down. Near the summit of this, in a wild pine wood, was the
Felsenmeer--a great collection of rocks heaped together like pebbles on
the sea shore, and worn and rounded as if by the action of water: so
much do they resemble waves, that one standing at the bottom and looking
up, cannot resist the idea, that they will flow down upon him. It must
have been a mighty tide whose receding waves left these masses piled up
together! The same formation continues at intervals, to the foot, of the
mountains. It reminded me of a _glacier_ of rocks instead of ice. A
little higher up, lies a massive block of granite called the "Giant's
Column." It is thirty-two feet long and three to four feet in diameter,
and still bears the mark of the chisel. When or by whom it was made,
remains a mystery. Some have supposed it was intended to be erected for
the worship of the Sun, by the wild Teutonic tribes who inhabited this
forest; it is more probably the work of the Romans. A project was once
started, to erect it as a monument on the battle-field of Leipsic, but
it was found too difficult to carry into execution.

After dining at the little village of Reichelsdorf in the valley below,
where the merry landlord charged my friend two kreutzers less than
myself because he was not so tall, we visited the Castle of Schönberg,
and joined the Bergstrasse again. We walked the rest of the way here;
long before we arrived, the moon shone down on us over the mountains,
and when we turned around the foot of the Heiligenberg, the mist
descending in the valley of the Neckar, rested like a light cloud on the
church spires.




CHAPTER X.

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.




CHAPTER XI.

SCENES IN FRANKFORT--AN AMERICAN COMPOSER--THE POET FREILIGRATH.


_Dec. 4._--This is a genuine old German city. Founded by Charlemagne,
afterwards a rallying point of the Crusaders, and for a long time the
capital of the German empire, it has no lack of interesting historical
recollections, and notwithstanding it is fast becoming modernized, one
is every where reminded of the Past. The Cathedral, old as the days of
Peter the Hermit, the grotesque street of the Jews, the many quaint,
antiquated dwellings and the mouldering watch-towers on the hills
around, give it a more interesting character than any German city I have
yet seen. The house we dwell in, on the Markt Platz, is more than two
hundred years old; directly opposite is a great castellated building,
gloomy with the weight of six centuries, and a few steps to the left
brings me to the square of the Roemerberg, where the Emperors were
crowned, in a corner of which is a curiously ornamented house, formerly
the residence of Luther. There are legends innumerable connected with
all these buildings, and even yet discoveries are frequently made in old
houses, of secret chambers and staircases. When you add to all this, the
German love of ghost stories, and, indeed, their general belief in
spirits, the lover of romance could not desire a more agreeable
residence.

I often look out on the singular scene below my window. On both sides of
the street, leaving barely room to enter the houses, sit the market
women, with their baskets of vegetables and fruit. The middle of the
street is filled with women buying, and every cart or carriage that
comes along, has to force its way through the crowd, sometimes rolling
against and overturning the baskets on the side, when for a few minutes
there is a Babel of unintelligible sounds. The country women in their
jackets and short gowns go backwards and forwards with great loads on
their heads, sometimes nearly as high as themselves. It is a most
singular scene, and so varied that one never tires of looking upon it.
These women sit here from sunrise till sunset, day after day, for years.
They have little furnaces for cooking and for warmth in winter, and when
it rains they sit in large wooden boxes. One or two policemen are
generally on the ground in the morning to prevent disputing about their
places, which often gives rise to interesting scenes. Perhaps this kind
of life in the open air is conducive to longevity; for certainly there
is no country on earth that has as many old women. Many of them look
like walking machines made of leather; and to judge from what I see in
the streets here, I should think they work till they die.

On the 21st of October a most interesting fete took place. The
magnificent monument of Goethe, modelled by the sculptor Schwanthaler,
at Munich, and cast in bronze, was unveiled. It arrived a few days
before, and was received with much ceremony and erected in the destined
spot, an open square in the western part of the city, planted with
acacia trees. I went there at ten o'clock, and found the square already
full of people. Seats had been erected around the monument for ladies,
the singers and musicians. A company of soldiers was stationed to keep
an entrance for the procession, which at length arrived with music and
banners, and entered the enclosure. A song for the occasion was sung by
the choir; it swelled up gradually, and with such perfect harmony and
unity, that it seemed like some glorious instrument touched by a single
hand. Then a poetical address was delivered; after which four young men
took their stand at the corners of the monument; the drums and trumpets
gave a flourish, and the mantle fell. The noble figure seemed to rise
out of the earth, and thus amid shoutings and the triumphal peal of the
band, the form of Goethe greeted the city of his birth. He is
represented as leaning on the trunk of a tree, holding in his right hand
a roll of parchment, and in his left a wreath. The pedestal, which is
also of bronze, contains bas reliefs, representing scenes from Faust,
Wilhelm Meister and Egmont. In the evening Goethe's house, in a street
near, was illuminated by arches of lamps between the windows, and hung
with wreaths of flowers. Four pillars of colored lamps lighted the
statue. At nine o'clock the choir of singers came again in a procession,
with colored lanterns, on poles, and after singing two or three songs,
the statue was exhibited in the red glare of the Bengal light. The trees
and houses around the square were covered with the glow, which streamed
in broad sheets up against the dark sky.

Within the walls the greater part of Frankfort is built in the old
German style--the houses six or seven stones high, and every story
projecting out over the other, so that those living in the upper part
can nearly shake hands out of the windows. At the corners figures of men
are often seen, holding up the story above on their shoulders and making
horrible faces at the weight. When I state that in all these narrow
streets which constitute the greater part of the city, there are no
sidewalks, the windows of the lower stories with an iron grating
extending a foot or so into the street, which is only wide enough for
one cart to pass along, you can have some idea of the facility of
walking through them, to say nothing of the piles of wood, and
market-women with baskets of vegetables which one is continually
stumbling over. Even in the wider streets, I have always to look before
and behind to keep out of the way of the fiacres; the people here get so
accustomed to it, that they leave barely room for them to pass, and the
carriages go dashing by at a nearness which sometimes makes me shudder.

As I walked across the Main, and looked down at the swift stream on its
way from the distant Thuringian forest to join the Rhine, I thought of
the time when Schiller stood there in the days of his early struggles,
an exile from his native land, and looking over the bridge, said in the
loneliness of his heart, "That water flows not so deep as my
sufferings!" In the middle, on an iron ornament, stands the golden cock
at which Goethe used to marvel when a boy. Perhaps you have not heard
the legend connected with this. The bridge was built several hundred
years ago, with such strength and solidity that it will stand many
hundred yet. The architect had contracted to build it within a certain
time, but as it drew near, without any prospect of fulfilment, the devil
appeared to him and promised to finish it, on condition of having the
first soul that passed over it. This was agreed upon end the devil
performed his part of the bargain. The artist, however, on the day
appointed, drove a cook across before he suffered any one to pass over
it. His majesty stationed himself under the middle arch of the bridge,
awaiting his prey; but enraged at the cheat, he tore the unfortunate
fowl in pieces and broke two holes in the arch, saying they should never
be built up again. The golden cock was erected on the bridge as a token
of the event, but the devil has perhaps lost some of his power in these
latter days, for the holes were filled up about thirty years ago.

From the hills on the Darmstadt road, I had a view of the country
around--the fields were white and bare, and the dark Tannus, with the
broad patches of snow on his sides, looked grim and shadowy through the
dim atmosphere. It was like the landscape of a dream--dark, strange and
silent. The whole of last month we saw the sun but two or three days,
the sky being almost continually covered with a gloomy fog. England and
Germany seem to have exchanged climates this year, for in the former
country we had delightfully clear weather.

I have seen the banker Rothschild several times driving about the city.
This one--Anselmo, the most celebrated of the brothers--holds a mortgage
on the city of Jerusalem. He rides about in style, with officers
attending his carriage. He is a little bald-headed man, with marked
Jewish features, and is said not to deceive his looks. At any rate, his
reputation is none of the best, either with Jews or Christians. A
caricature was published some time ago, in which he is represented as
giving a beggar woman by the way-side, a kreutzer--the smallest German
coin. She is made to exclaim, "God reward you, a thousand fold!" He
immediately replies, after reckoning up in his head: "How much have I
then?--sixteen florins and forty kreutzers!"

I have lately heard one of the most perfectly beautiful creations that
ever emanated from the soul of genius--the opera of Fidelio. I have
caught faint glimpses of that rich world of fancy and feeling, to which
music is the golden door. Surrendering myself to the grasp of
Beethoven's powerful conception, I read in sounds far more expressive
than words, the almost despairing agony of the strong-hearted, but
still tender and womanly Fidelio--the ecstatic joy of the wasted
prisoner, when he rose from his hard couch in the dungeon, seeming to
fuel, in his maniac brain, the presentiment of a bright being who would
come to unbind his chains--and. the sobbing and wailing, almost-human,
which came from the orchestra, when they dug his grave, by the dim
lantern's light. When it was done, the murderer stole into the dungeon,
to gloat on the agonies of his victim, ere he gave the death-blow. Then,
while the prisoner is waked to reason by that sight, and Fidelio throws
herself before the uplifted dagger, rescuing her husband with the
courage which love gives to a woman's heart, the storm of feeling which
has been gathering in the music, swells to a height beyond which it
seemed impossible for the soul to pass. My nerves were thrilled till I
could bear no more. A mist seemed to come before my eyes and I scarcely
knew what followed, till the rescued kneeled together and poured forth
in the closing hymn the painful fullness of their joy. I dreaded the
sound of voices after the close, and the walk home amid the harsh
rattling of vehicles on the rough streets. For days afterwards my brain
was filled with a mingled and confused sense of melody, like the
half-remembered music of a dream.

Why should such magnificent creations of art be denied the new world?
There is certainly enthusiasm and refinement of feeling enough at home
to appreciate them, were the proper direction given to the popular
taste. What country possesses more advantages to foster the growth of
such an art, than ours? Why should not the composer gain mighty
conceptions from the grandeur of our mountain scenery, from the howling
of the storm through our giant forests, from the eternal thunder of
Niagara? All these collateral influences, which more or less tend to the
development and expansion of genius, are characteristics of our country;
and a taste for musical compositions of a refined and lofty character,
would soon give birth to creators.

Fortunately for our country, this missing star in the crown of her
growing glory, will probably soon be replaced. Richard S. Willis, with
whom we have lived in delightful companionship, since coming here, has
been for more than two years studying and preparing himself for the
higher branches of composition. The musical talent he displayed while
at college, and the success following the publication of a set of
beautiful waltzes he there composed, led him to choose this most
difficult but lofty path; the result justifies his early promise and
gives the most sanguine anticipations for the future. He studied the
first two years here under Schnyder von Wartensee, a distinguished Swiss
composer; and his exercises have met with the warmest approval from
Mendelsohn, at present the first German composer, and Rinck, the
celebrated organist. The enormous labor and application required to go
through the preparatory studies alone, would make it seem almost
impossible for one with the restless energy of the American character,
to undertake it; but as this very energy gives genius its greatest
power, we may now trust with confidence that Willis, since he has nearly
completed his studies, will win himself and his country honor in the
difficult path he has chosen.

One evening, after sunset, we took a stroll around the promenades. The
swans were still floating on the little lake, and the American poplar
beside it, was in its full autumn livery. As we made the circuit of the
walks, guns were firing far and near, celebrating the opening of the
vintage the next day, and rockets went glittering and sparkling up into
the dark air. Notwithstanding the late hour and lowering sky, the walks
were full of people and we strolled about with them till it grew quite
dark, watching the fire-works which arose from the gardens around.

The next day, we went into the Frankfort wood. Willis and his
brother-in-law, Charles F. Dennett, of Boston, Dr. Dix and another young
gentleman from the same city, formed the party--six Americans in all; we
walked over the Main and through the dirty suburbs of Sachsenhausen,
where we met many peasants laden with the first day's vintage, and
crowds of people coming down from the vineyards. As we ascended the
hill, the sound of firing was heard in every direction, and from many
vineyards arose the smoke of fires where groups of merry children were
collecting and burning the rubbish. We became lost among the winding
paths of the pine forest, so that by the time we came out upon the
eminence overlooking the valley of the Main, it was quite dark. From
every side, far and near, rockets of all sizes and colors darted high
up into the sky. Sometimes a flight of the most brilliant crimson and
gold lights rushed up together, then again by some farm-house in the
meadow, the vintagers would burn a Roman candle, throwing its powerful
white light on the gardens and fields around. We stopped under a garden
wall, by which a laughing company were assembled in the smoke and red
blaze, and watched several comets go hissing and glancing far above us.
The cracking of ammunition still continued, and when we came again upon
the bridge, the city opposite was lighted as if illuminated. The full
moon had just risen, softening and mellowing the beautiful scene, while
beyond, over the tower of Frankfort, rose and fell the meteors that
heralded the vintage.

Since I have been in Frankfort, an event has occurred, which shows very
distinctly the principles at work in Germany, and gives us some
foreboding of the future. Ferdinand Freiligrath, the first living poet
with the exception of Uhland, has within a few weeks published a volume
of poems entitled, "My Confession of Faith, or Poems for the Times." It
contains some thrilling appeals to the free spirit of the German people,
setting forth the injustice under which they labor, in simple but
powerful language, and with the most forcible illustrations, adapted to
the comprehension of everyone. Viewed as a work of genius alone, it is
strikingly powerful and original: but when we consider the effect it is
producing among the people--the strength it will add to the rising tide
of opposition to every form of tyranny, it has a still higher interest.
Freiligrath had three or four years before, received a pension of three
hundred thalers from the King of Prussia, soon after his accession to
the throne: he ceased to draw this about a year ago, stating in the
preface to his volume that it was accepted in the belief the King would
adhere to his promise of giving the people a new constitution, but that
now since free spirit which characterises these men, who come from
among the people, shows plainly the tendency of the times; and it is
only the great strength with which tyranny here has environed himself,
and the almost lethargic _slowness_ of the Germans, which has prevented
a change ere this.

In this volume of Freiligrath's, among other things, is a translation of
Bryant's magnificent poem "The Winds," and Burns's "A man's a man for a'
that;" and I have translated one of his, as a specimen of the spirit in
which they are written:

    FREEDOM AND RIGHT.

    Oh! think not she rests in the grave's chilly slumber
      Nor sheds o'er the present her glorious light,
    Since Tyranny's shackles the free soul incumber
      And traitors accusing, deny to us Right!
    No: whether to exile the sworn ones are wending,
    Or weary of power that crushed them unending,
    In dungeons have perished, their veins madly rending,[*]
      Yet Freedom still liveth, and with her, the Right!
                                            Freedom and Right!

    A single defeat can confuse us no longer:
      It adds to the combat's last gathering might,
    It bids us but doubly to struggle, and stronger
      To raise up our battle-cry--"Freedom and Right!"
    For the Twain know a union forever abiding,
    Together in Truth and in majesty striding;
    Where Right is, already the free are residing
      And ever, where dwell the free, governeth Right!
                                            Freedom and Right!

    And this is a trust: never made, us at present,
      The glad pair from battle to battle their flight;
    Never breathed through the soul of the down-trodden peasant,
      Their spirit so deeply its promptings of light!
    They sweep o'er the earth with a tempest-like token;
    From strand unto strand words of thunder are spoken:
    Already the serf finds his manacles broken,
      And those of the negro are falling from sight
                                            Freedom and Right!

    Yes, every where wide is their war-banner waving.
      On the armies of Wrong their revenge to requite;
    The strength of Oppression they boldly are braving
      And at last they will conquer, resistless in might!
    Oh, God! what a glorious wreath then appearing
    Will blend every leaf in the banner they're bearing--The
    olive of Greece and the shamrock of Erin,
      And the oak-bough of Germany, greenest in light!
                                            Freedom and Right!

    And many who suffered, are now calmly sleeping,
      The slumber of freemen, borne down by the fight;
    While the Twain o'er their graves still a bright watch are keeping,
      Whom we bless for their memories--Freedom and Right!
    Meanwhile lift your glasses! to those who have striven!
    And striving with bold hearts, to misery were driven!
    Who fought for the Right and but Wrong then were given!
      To Right, the immortal--to Freedom through Right!
                                            Freedom through Right!

[Footnote *: This allusion is to Weidig, who, imprisoned for years at
Darmstadt on account of his political principles, finally committed
suicide by cutting his throat with the glass of his prison-window.]




CHAPTER XII.

A WEEK AMONG THE STUDENTS.


Receiving a letter from my cousin one bright December morning, the idea
of visiting him struck me, and so, within an hour, B---- and I were on
our way to Heidelberg. It was delightful weather; the air was mild as
the early days of spring, the pine forests around wore a softer green,
and though the sun was but a hand's breadth high, even at noon, it was
quite warm on the open road. We stopped for the night at Bensheim; the
next morning was as dark as a cloudy day in the north can be, wearing a
heavy gloom I never saw elsewhere. The wind blew the snow down from the
summits upon us, but being warm from walking, we did not heed it. The
mountains looked higher than in summer, and the old castles more grim
and frowning. From the hard roads and freezing wind, my feet became very
sore, and after limping along in excruciating pain for a league or two,
I filled my boots with brandy, which deadened the wounds so much, that I
was enabled to go on in a kind of trot, which I kept up, only stopping
ten minutes to dinner, till we reached Heidelberg.

The same evening there was to be a general _commers_, or meeting of the
societies among the students, and I determined not to omit witnessing
one of the most interesting and characteristic features of student-life.
So borrowing a cap and coat, I looked the student well enough to pass
for one of them, though the former article was somewhat of the
_Philister_ form. Baader, a young poet of some note, and president of
the "Palatia" Society, having promised to take us there, we met at
eight o'clock at an inn frequented by the students, and went to the
rendezvous, near the Markt Platz.

A confused sound of voices came from the inn, as we drew near; groups of
students were standing around the door. In the entry we saw the Red
Fisherman, one of the most conspicuous characters about the University.
He is a small, stout man, with bare neck and breast, red hair, whence
his name, and a strange mixture of roughness and benevolence in his
countenance. He has saved many persons at the risk of his own life, from
drowning in the Neckar, and on that account is leniently dealt with by
the faculty whenever he is arrested for assisting the students in any of
their unlawful proceedings. Entering the room I could scarcely see at
first, on account of the smoke that ascended from a hundred pipes. All
was noise and confusion. Near the door sat some half dozen musicians who
were getting their instruments ready for action, and the long room was
filled with tables, all of which seemed to be full and the students were
still pressing in. The tables were covered with great stone jugs and
long beer glasses; the students were talking and shouting and
drinking.--One who appeared to have the arrangement of the meeting,
found seats for us together, and having made a slight acquaintance with
those sitting next us, we felt more at liberty to witness their
proceedings. They were all talking in a sociable, friendly way, and I
saw no one who appeared to be intoxicated. The beer was a weak mixture,
which I should think would make one fall over from its _weight_ before
it would intoxicate him. Those sitting near me drank but little, and
that principally to make or return compliments. One or two at the other
end of the table were more boisterous, and more than one glass was
overturned on the legs below it. Leaves containing the songs for the
evening lay at each seat, and at the head, where the President sat, were
two swords crossed, with which he occasionally struck upon the table to
preserve order. Our President was a fine, romantic-looking young man,
dressed in the old German costume, which is far handsomer than the
modern. I never saw in any company of young men, so many handsome, manly
countenances. If their faces were any index of their characters, there
were many noble, free souls among them. Nearly opposite to me sat a
young poet, whose dark eyes flashed with feeling as he spoke to those
near him. After some time passed in talking and drinking together,
varied by an occasional air from the musicians, the President beat order
with the sword, and the whole company joined in one of their glorious
songs, to a melody at the same time joyous and solemn. Swelled by so
many manly voices it rose up like a hymn of triumph--all other sounds
were stilled. Three times during the singing all rose up, clashed their
glasses together around the tables and drank to their Fatherland, a
health and blessing to the patriot, and honor to those who struggle in
the cause of freedom, at the close thundering out their motto:

    "Fearless in strife, to the banner still true!"

After this song the same order as before was continued, except that
students from the different societies made short speeches, accompanied
by some toast or sentiment. One spoke of Germany--predicting that all
her dissensions would be overcome, and she would rise up at last, like a
phoenix among the nations of Europe; and at the close gave 'strong,
united, regenerated Germany!' Instantly all sprang to their feet, and
clashing the glasses together, gave a thundering "_hoch!_" This
enthusiasm for their country is one of the strongest characteristics of
the German students; they have ever been first in the field for her
freedom, and on them mainly depends her future redemption.

Cloths were passed around, the tables wiped off, and preparations made
to sing the "_Landsfather_" or consecration song. This is one of the
most important and solemn of their ceremonies, since by performing it
the new students are made _burschen_, and the bands of brotherhood
continually kept fresh and sacred. All became still a moment, then they
commenced the lofty song:

    "Silent bending, each one lending
      To the solemn tones his ear,
    Hark, the song of songs is sounding--
    Back from joyful choir resounding,
      Hear it, German brothers, hear!

    "German proudly, raise it loudly,
      Singing of your fatherland--
    Fatherland! thou land of story,
    To the altars of thy glory
      Consecrate us, sword in hand!

    "Take the beaker, pleasure seeker,
      With thy country's drink brimmed o'er!
    In thy left the sword is blinking.
    Pierce it through the cap, while drinking
      To thy Fatherland once more!"

With the first line of the last stanza, the Presidents sitting at the
head of the table, take their glasses in their right hands, and at the
third line, the sword in their left, at the end striking their glasses
together and drinking.

    "In left hand gleaming, thou art beaming,
      Sword from all dishonour free!
    Thus I pierce the cap, while swearing,
    It in honor ever wearing,
      I a valiant Bursch will be!"

They clash their swords together till the third line is sung, when each
takes his cap, and piercing the point of the sword through the crown,
draws it down to the guard. Leaving their caps on the swords, the
Presidents stand behind the two next students, who go through the same
ceremony, receiving the swords at the appropriate time, and giving it
back loaded with their caps also. This ceremony is going on at every
table at the same time. These two stanzas are repeated for every pair of
students, till all have gone through with it, and the Presidents have
arrived at the bottom of the table, with their swords strung full of
caps. Here they exchange swords, while all sing:

    "Come thou bright sword, now made holy,
      Of free men the weapon free;
    Bring it solemnly and slowly,
      Heavy with pierced caps, to me!
    From its burden now divest it;
      Brothers be ye covered all,
      And till our next festival,
    Hallowed and unspotted rest it!

    "Up, ye feast companions! ever
      Honor ye our holy band!
    And with heart and soul endeavor
      E'er as high-souled men to stand!
    Up to feast, ye men united!
      Worthy be your fathers' fame,
      And the sword may no one claim,
    Who to honor is not plighted!"

Then each President, taking a cap of his sword, reached it to the
student opposite, and they crossed their swords, the ends resting on the
two students' heads, while they sang the next stanza:

    "So take it back; thy head I now will cover
      And stretch the bright sword over.
    Live also then this Bursche, hoch!
      Wherever we may meet him,
      Will we, as Brother greet him--
    Live also this, our Brother, hoch!"

This ceremony was repeated till all the caps were given back, and they
then concluded with the following:

    "Rest, the Bursehen-feast is over,
      Hallowed sword and thou art free!
    Each one strive a valiant lover
      Of his fatherland to be!
    Hail to him, who, glory-haunted,
      Follows still his fathers bold;
      And the sword may no one hold
    But the noble and undaunted!"

The Landsfather being over, the students were less orderly; the smoking
and drinking began again and we left, as it was already eleven o'clock,
glad to breathe the pure cold air.

In the University I heard Gervinus, who was formerly professor in
Göttingen, but was obliged to leave on account of his liberal
principles. He is much liked by the students and his lectures are very
well attended. They had this winter a torchlight procession in honor of
him. He is a stout, round-faced man, speaks very fast, and makes them
laugh continually with his witty remarks. In the room I saw a son of
Rückert, the poet, with a face strikingly like his father's. The next
evening I went to hear Schlosser, the great historian. Among his pupils
are the two princes of Baden, who are now at the University. He came
hurriedly in, threw down his portfolio and began instantly to speak. He
is an old, gray-headed man, but still active and full of energy. The
Germans find him exceedingly difficult to understand, as he is said to
use the English construction almost entirely; for this reason, perhaps,
I understood him quite easily. He lectures on the French Revolution, but
is engaged in writing a Universal History, the first numbers of which
are published.

Two or three days after, we heard that a duel was to take place at
Neuenheim, on the opposite side of the Neckur, where the students have a
house hired for that purpose. In order to witness the spectacle, we
started immediately with two or three students. Along the road were
stationed old women, at intervals, as guards, to give notice of the
approach of the police, and from these we learned that one duel had
already been fought, and they were preparing for the other. The Red
Fisherman was busy in an outer room grinding the swords, which are made
as sharp as razors. In the large room some forty or fifty students were
walking about, while the parties were preparing. This was done by taking
off the coat and vest and binding a great thick leather garment on,
which reached from the breast to the knees, completely protecting the
body. They then put on a leather glove reaching nearly to the shoulder,
tied a thick cravat around the throat, and drew on a cap with a large
vizor. This done, they were walked about the room a short time, the
seconds holding out their arms to strengthen them; their faces all this
time betrayed considerable anxiety.

All being ready, the seconds took their stations immediately behind
them, each armed with a sword, and gave the words: "_ready--bind your
weapons--loose!_" They instantly sprang at each other, exchanged two or
three blows, when the seconds cried "halt!" and struck their swords up.
Twenty-four rounds of this kind ended the duel, without either being
hurt, though the cap of one of them was cut through and his forehead
grazed. All their duels do not end so fortunately, however, as the
frightful scars on the faces of many of those present, testified. It is
a gratification to know that but a small portion of the students keep up
this barbarous custom. The great body is opposed to it; in Heidelberg,
four societies, comprising more than one half the students, have been
formed against it. A strong desire for such a reform seems to prevail,
and the custom will probably be totally discontinued in a short time.

This view of the student-life was very interesting to me; it appeared in
a much better light than I had been accustomed to view it. Their
peculiar customs, except duelling and drinking, of course, may be the
better tolerated when we consider their effect on the liberty of
Germany. It is principally through them that a free spirit is kept
alive; they have ever been foremost to rise up for their Fatherland, and
bravest in its defence. And though many of their customs have so often
been held up to ridicule, among no other class can one find warmer,
truer or braver hearts.




CHAPTER XIII.

CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR IN GERMANY.


_Jan. 2, 1845._--I have lately been computing how much my travels have
cost me up to the present time, and how long I can remain abroad to
continue the pilgrimage, with my present expectations. The result has
been most encouraging to my plan. Before leaving home, I wrote to
several gentlemen who had visited Europe, requesting the probable
expense of travel and residence abroad. They sent different accounts; E.
Joy Morris said I must calculate to spend at least $1500 a year; another
suggested $1000, and the most moderate of all, said that it was
_impossible_ to live in Europe a year on less than $500. Now, six months
have elapsed since I left home--six months of greater pleasure and
profit than any _year_ of my former life--and my expenses, in full,
amount to $130! This, however, nearly exhausts the limited sum with
which I started, but through the kindness of the editorial friends who
have been publishing my sketches of travel, I trust to receive a
remittance shortly. Printing is a business attended with so little
profit here, as there are already so many workmen, that it is almost
useless for a stranger to apply. Besides, after a tough grapple, I am
just beginning to master the language, and it seems so necessary to
devote every minute to study, that I would rather undergo some
privation, than neglect turning these fleeting hours into gold, for the
miser Memory to stow away in the treasure-vaults of the mind.

We have lately witnessed the most beautiful and interesting of all
German festivals--Christmas. This is here peculiarly celebrated. About
the commencement of December, the Christmarkt or fair, was opened in the
Roemerberg, and has continued to the present time. The booths, decorated
with green boughs, were filled with toys of various kinds, among which
during the first days the figure of St. Nicholas was conspicuous. There
were bunches of wax candles to illuminate the Christmas tree,
gingerbread with printed mottos in poetry, beautiful little earthenware,
basket-work, and a wilderness of playthings. The 5th of December, being
Nicholas evening, the booths were lighted up, and the square was filled
with boys, running from one stand to another, all shouting and talking
together in the most joyous confusion. Nurses were going around,
carrying the smaller children in their arms, and parents bought presents
decorated with sprigs of pine and carried them away. Some of the shops
had beautiful toys, as for instance, a whole grocery store in miniature,
with barrels, boxes and drawers, all filled with sweetmeats, a kitchen
with a stove and all suitable utensils, which could really be used, and
sets of dishes of the most diminutive patterns. All was a scene of
activity and joyous feeling.

Many of the tables had bundles of rods with gilded bands, which were to
be used that evening by the persons who represented St. Nicholas. In the
family with whom we reside, one of our German friends dressed himself
very comically, with a mask, fur robe and long tapering cap. He came in
with a bunch of rods and a sack, and a broom for a sceptre. After we all
had received our share of the beating, he threw the contents of his bag
on the table, and while we were scrambling for the nuts and apples, gave
us many smart raps over the fingers. In many families the children are
made to say, "I thank you, Herr Nicolaus," and the rods are hung up in
the room till Christmas to keep them in good behavior. This was only a
forerunner of the Christ-kindchen's coming. The Nicolaus is the
punishing spirit, the Christ-kindchen the rewarding one.

When this time was over, we all began preparing secretly our presents
for Christmas. Every day there were consultations about the things which
should be obtained. It was so arranged that all should interchange
presents, but nobody must know beforehand what he would receive. What
pleasure there was in all these secret purchases and preparations!
Scarcely anything was thought or spoken of but Christmas, and every day
the consultations became more numerous and secret. The trees were bought
sometime beforehand, but as we were to witness the festival for the
first time, we were not allowed to see them prepared, in order that the
effect might be as great as possible. The market in the Roeinerberg
Square grew constantly larger and more brilliant. Every night it was lit
up with lamps and thronged with people. Quite a forest sprang up in the
street before our door. The old stone house opposite, with the traces of
so many centuries on its dark face, seemed to stand in the midst of a
garden. It was a pleasure to go out every evening and see the children
rushing to and fro, shouting and seeking out toys from the booths, and
talking all the time of the Christmas that was so near. The poor people
went by with their little presents hid under their cloaks, lest their
children might see them; every heart was glad and every countenance wore
a smile of secret pleasure.

Finally the day before Christmas arrived. The streets were so full I
could scarce make my way through, and the sale of trees went on more
rapidly than ever. These wore commonly branches of pine or fir, set
upright in a little miniature garden of moss. When the lamps were
lighted at night, our street had the appearance of an illuminated
garden. We were prohibited from entering the rooms up stairs in which
the grand ceremony was to take place, being obliged to take our seats in
those arranged for the guests, and wait with impatience the hour when
Christ-kindchen should call. Several relations of the family came, and
what was more agreeable, they brought with them five or six children. I
was anxious to see how they would view the ceremony. Finally, in the
middle of an interesting conversation, we heard the bell ringing up
stairs. We all started up, and made for the door. I ran up the steps
with the children at my heels, and at the top met a blaze of light
coming from the open door, that dazzled me. In each room stood a great
table, on which the presents were arranged, amid flowers and wreaths.
From the centre, rose the beautiful Christmas tree covered with wax
tapers to the very top, which made it nearly as light as day, while
every bough was hung with sweetmeats and gilded nuts. The children ran
shouting around the table, hunting their presents, while the older
persons had theirs pointed out to them. I had qui'e a little library of
German authors as my share; and many of the others received quite
valuable gifts.

But how beautiful was the heart-felt joy that shone on every
countenance! As each one discovered he embraced the givers, and all was
a scene of the purest feelings. It is a glorious feast, this Christmas
time! What a chorus from happy hearts went up on that evening to Heaven!
Full of poetry and feeling and glad associations, it is here anticipated
with joy, and leaves a pleasant memory behind it. We may laugh at such
simple festivals at home, and prefer to shake ourselves loose from every
shackle that bears the rust of the Past, but we would certainly be
happier if some of these beautiful old customs were better honored. They
renew the bond of feeling between families and friends, and strengthen
their kindly sympathy; even life-long friends require occasions of this
kind to freshen the wreath that binds them together.

New Year's Eve is also favored with a peculiar celebration in Germany.
Every body remains up and makes himself merry till midnight. The
Christmas trees are again lighted, and while the tapers are burning
down, the family play for articles which they have purchased and hung on
the boughs. It is so arranged that each one shall win as much as he
gives, which change of articles makes much amusement. One of the ladies
rejoiced in the possession of a red silk handkerchief and a cake of
soap, while a cup and saucer and a pair of scissors fell to my lot! As
midnight drew near, it was louder in the streets, and companies of
people, some of them singing in chorus, passed by on their way to the
Zeil. Finally three-quarters struck, the windows were opened and every
one waited anxiously for the clock to strike. At the first sound, such a
cry arose as one may imagine, when thirty or forty thousand persons all
set their lungs going at once. Every body in the house, in the street,
over the whole city, shouted, _"Prosst Neu Jahr?"_ In families, all the
members embrace each other, with wishes of happiness for the new year.
Then the windows are thrown open, and they cry to their neighbors or
those passing by.

After we had exchanged congratulations, Dennett, B---- and I set out for
the Zeil. The streets were full of people, shouting to one another and
to those standing at the open windows. We failed not to cry, _"Prosst
Neu Jahr!"_ whe

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